By Those Glowing Embers
by QueenYoda
Summary: Alternate Season three, set after "A Marriage of Inconvenience." When Rochefort begins sending Musketeers on secret missions to Southern France, Aramis is caught in a dangerous game of assassins and immorality. As his brothers scramble to help him, France inches ever closer to war. In the midst of betrayal and secrets, can Aramis ever return home, or is he lost forever?
1. Chapter 1

D'Artagnan knew it was destined to be one of those days when he strode into the garrison that morning. The first indication was Jean-Paul, a recently commissioned Musketeer who suddenly landed at his feet before he had taken more than three steps forward. D'Artagnan arched a brow at the older man, glanced up, and nodded sympathetically.

"Porthos?" He asked.

Jean-Paul's eyes fluttered open slowly. When he noticed D'Artagnan, he cringed. "'Fraid so," he gulped.

D'Artagnan let out a noise of barely contained exasperation and looked up. "Porthos!" He called, upon catching sight of his friend in the middle of the courtyard. He was spinning, two terrified Musketeers clinging to his back as he swirled nimbly as a dancer. From this angle, they were similar to the ribbons on a May-Pole, swung persistently around their anchor point like limp noodles.

D'Artagnan crossed his arms, one finger tapping at the Pauldron adorning his left shoulder. He had only had it for a few months now, but his sense of awe had yet to wear thin. Evidently, some unsuspecting idiots had challenged Porthos to a wrestling duel while he was in a foul mood. Still, Porthos wasn't usually so… Brutal. He preferred to teach, not to torture, which seemed to be Aramis and Athos's duties respectively.

At his call, Porthos came to an abrupt halt. The two Musketeers on his back went flying in opposite directions, landing with grunts of pain and causing a flare of dust to cloud the air. Porthos's chest was heaving, fists clenched at his sides and eyes aflame with rage. "I'm gonna kill 'im," he growled.

"Who?" D'Artagnan coughed, waving away the dust stinging his lungs and eyes, feeling a bit of panic. _He_ didn't recall having done anything lately to inspire Porthos's rare temper.

"Who else?" Another voice intoned. D'Artagnan turned slightly, surprised. It had been a long time since he had been unaware of Athos's presence, the other man adept at hiding close to the shadows. Nevertheless, D'Artagnan had perfected the art of locating him no matter the circumstance- Porthos and Aramis now looked to him whenever searching for their dear comrade.

D'Artagnan stood, watching the two men warily. Athos's expression was a mask of blandness, as ever, but the way he walked, like a spring coiled to snap, screamed of tightly reined anger. Porthos, also, was still heaving, though he had come to his senses enough to lend a hand to the men he had defeated. "Sorry, lads," the gentle giant apologized, as he hauled Jean-Paul to his feet. "Things went'a little sideways there."

"No worries, Porthos," Jean-Paul replied, cheerful as ever. He slapped at his pants and shirt, sending puffs of dust back into the air. D'Artagnan took a few steps to the side. It was nearly _summer,_ for goodness sakes. Dust in the hot air was not doing anything for D'Artagnan's continued ease of breathing. "It was a good lesson," he said, smacking Porthos on the back.

"Did I do something?" D'Artagnan blurted. Athos gave him a stern glare.

" _Did_ you do something?" he repeated dangerously.

"We ain't mad at you, D'Artagnan," Porthos sighed, sparing him from having to explain the twenty-four hours since they had last seen each other to Athos, who looked extremely displeased. "It's 'Mis. Not even really mad at him…"

Athos harrumphed and speared Porthos with a dour look. "Speak for yourself, _mon ami,_ " he growled, stalking back toward the empty table beneath Treveille's office.

So much made sense now. "What'd he do this time?" D'Artagnan asked, plopping down beside Athos. Porthos joined them a moment later, his foot thumping relentlessly against the ground as soon as he sat. He squinted at the gates of the Garrison, as if his diligence would suddenly make Aramis appear.

"He was given an assignment," Athos replied.

"What? When? By Treveille?" D'Artagnan gasped, surprised. The captain rarely- it had only happened two times in the two years he had been at the Garrison- assigned one of them without the others. They were called _The Inseperables_ for a reason.

"Rochefort," Porthos grunted. "The Captain just received word of it 'imself a few hours ago. He left to give Rochefort a piece o' 'is mind. Aramis was sent off _yesterday_ and he didn't tell a soul about it. Don't even know where he is," D'Artagnan felt a thrill of apprehension steal up his spine. Now he was squinting at the gates of the garrison, shading his eyes against the glare of the mid-day sun.

"Maybe Rochefort sent him away without time to…"

"We saw him yesterday morning, remember?" Athos interrupted. "At breakfast. He was acting strangely?" D'Artagnan nodded, his mind flashing back to their brief but telling breakfast. Aramis had excused himself early from breakfast, and D'Artagnan had not seen him the rest of the day. He had not thought it overly odd.

When they did not have missions to accomplish, the Musketeers often kept themselves busy patrolling the Louvre or performing chores around the Garrison. He had assumed Aramis had done one of the two, or else returned to the bed of one of his mistresses in the city. It would not be the first time the marksman suddenly vanished, only to later reappear and regale them with side-splitting stories of his small misadventures in the city.

"He _was_ quiet at breakfast. He didn't even greet everyone," D'Artagnan recalled, scowling. "You think he knew then that he had a mission?"

"Aramis does one of two things when he's upset," Athos piped in. "He shuts up or he vanishes without word. He did both yesterday." D'Artagnan felt a hard pit form in his gut. His fingers tapped a relentless beat on the table, now feeling restless anxiety flow through his veins.

"Why didn't he let the Captain know where he was going?"

"D'Artagnan," Porthos snapped, sending him an irritable glance. "We _don't know_. That's what has us so strung up. Rochefort could have easily sent him to… to _Jamaica,_ and we'd have had no word. I swear if he's sent Aramis into danger…" Porthos's fist slammed against the table. Athos hushed him without word, meeting Porthos's gaze with his own turbulent eyes.

"He should have told us," Athos snarled, shoving himself from the table with barely concealed frustration. "He keeps secrets too readily, and he'll stupidly jump to conclusions or into peril without the slightest thought to anyone else!" D'Artagnan reached over to squeeze his mentor's arm.

"It's alright, Athos," he reassured him, a bit startled by Athos's inclination toward anger these days. It seemed as if he and Aramis were skating on thin ice around each other, an unspoken argument lying dormant but unresolved between them. D'Artagnan glanced at Porthos, and knew he was not the only one who had noticed the friction.

"Treveille will be back any moment now," Porthos murmured, returning to the task at hand. "Then we'll know where he is, we can go get 'im and knock some sense into his thick 'ead," D'Artagnan nodded.

"Exactly," he agreed as Athos sank into his original seat, fuming but calm. "Maybe it was an easy assignment," D'Artagnan tried, though he knew the odds of his own suggestion were unlikely. Besides, the hard ball of anxiety in his stomach told him otherwise. Aramis was gone, somewhere in the wide world, _without_ them. It was a terrifying thought.

"He would have told us if it were easy," Athos pointed out.

"Look!" Porthos sprang to his feet. D'Artagnan peered around him, heart jumping to his throat, and quickly surged to his feet when he saw Captain Treveille's horse reenter the compound. The Captain dismounted with a sigh, handing the reigns of his horse to the nearest person before catching their eyes.

"Come with me," he commanded gruffly. D'Artagnan was already heading toward the stairs, following Athos and Porthos who were both scaling them two steps at a time. They scrambled into Treveille's office before the older man had even entered, standing around his desk impatiently.

"Is he safe?" Porthos blurted the second their captain walked into the room, softly closing the door behind him.

Treveille arched his eyebrows at them, silently pacing round to his desk. He sat down heavily before speaking. "He's safe," he said. D'Artagnan exhaled a shuddering breath, relieved.

Athos stepped forward from where he had been leaning against the furthest wall, as menacing and tense as a gargoyle. "Then where is he?" He demanded.

"I don't know," the stricken look on Porthos's face would have been comical had it belonged to any other circumstance. D'Artagnan quickly stepped aside as Porthos stormed to stand directly before Treveille, eyes wide with sudden fear.

"Then how do you know he's _safe_?!" His elder squeaked. D'Artagnan set a hand on Porthos's shoulder but did not pull him away. He instead studied Treveille's expression intently, searching for any signs of misdirection. He did not believe the captain would outright lie- not when it concerned the lives of one of his own- but he was known to keep secrets same as Aramis, if he thought it right.

Treveille barely spared him a glance. "Rochefort wouldn't tell me anything but that, Porthos! I don't know where he was sent. I barely know what he's doing…"

Athos appeared on Porthos's right side with a speed that belied the silence of his approach. "What's he doing?"

Treveille started rummaging in his drawers, mumbling curses as he did so. D'Artagnan could not recall ever having seen the normally stoic man so… Uneasy. "Apparently, Rochefort needed a Spanish speaker to help interrogate a Spanish spy," Treveille informed them, his voice pinched with anger. D'Artagnan nodded.

"Logical," he contemplated. "A little too logical for Rochefort. He could have found another translator. Why Aramis? And why didn't Aramis tell anyone where he was going?" D'Artagnan set a hand instinctively on the pommel of his sword, bouncing on his toes. Something… _Uncomfortable_ was slithering up his spine, wrapping itself around his throat. It was the same bad feeling he had possessed when Athos had gone missing suddenly a scant few weeks earlier.

"There has to be more to it than that," Athos insisted, arms crossed.

Treveille, if possible, looked more troubled than they did. Finally, he located what he had been looking for in his drawers. He pulled out a piece of paper, rolled and bound tightly by string. He smoothed it out on his desk, patting the corners down impatiently. D'Artagnan glanced down, instantly recognized a map of France.

His stomach clenched. The country looked larger like this, with all the cities and towns marked with dots and stars. Aramis could be anywhere. "Athos, that's all I could get out of him. The Spanish prisoner isn't being held at the Bastillle, or in Paris. Somewhere south of here… You can't go now!" he cried when the three of them instantly moved to open the door and head out.

"Why not?" D'Artagnan demanded, flabbergasted.

Treveille sighed. "Apparently, this Spanish spy was able to get and send quite a bit of information over the past few months, from Rochefort's rise and my fall to the circumstances of Emilie's disgrace. The King could be in danger," D'Artagnan resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

" _Aramis_ could be in danger," he pointed out _. Also, the King can kiss my ass,_ he wanted to add, but knew his words would not be welcomed in here. Though the sentiment was mutual, he was sure.

"At least let me go, Captain," Porthos suggested hopefully. "I can look up prisons in the south," he gestured to the map. "Work my way around…" Treveille held up a hand.

"Nothing would make me happier than to do that, Porthos, but it could take you weeks to search the Southern regions of France. That's precious time we don't have. Rochefort swore to me that Aramis would return in two days' time, unharmed. Meanwhile, I need every man here, watching out for anything suspicious," He sighed, ran a hand over his aching forehead.

"What does he think he's doin, anyway?" Porthos snapped, arms crossed angrily over his chest. "Orderin around Musketeers? What right does he have to tell any of us what to…"

"He's the King's Minister, Porthos," Treveille interrupted crossly. "He can do whatever the Hell he wants. As much as we don't like it, I'm afraid we must trust his word on this one," the room descended into silence. Porthos was fairly vibrating with rage while Athos was eerily still, brows furrowed. D'Artagnan rocked on his heels, trying not to let his urge _to run out that door_ overcome him. He had never been told he couldn't go after one of his friends before. It was a new experience, and an unwelcome one also.

"And if Aramis doesn't return in two days?" Athos asked, quietly, breaking the tense silence. D'Artagnan half turned, about to beg Athos not to say things like that, but Porthos laid a stilling hand on his shoulder. His eyes bore into Treveille, demanding answer.

Treveille pushed himself to a standing position grimly. "Then we tear this countryside apart looking for him," he promised.

* * *

 ** _Three days Later:_**

"Wait, how long has he been gone?" Constance asked again, blinking furiously as if that would undo the past ten minutes.

" _Three_ days," D'Artagnan growled, somehow managing to be heard over the sounds of the tavern. It was unusually full in _Le Spot Solitaire._ Constance glanced around as a meaty hand squeezed her arm as he walked past. She moved away in disgust, scooting closer to Porthos. He was too full of ire to notice.

"We should be tearing the countryside apart by now!" Porthos hissed.

"By yesterday." D'Artagnan corrected.

"The day he left, dammit!"

"Keep your voices down," Athos interrupted the tirade, sending them a cold glance. "Do you want all of France to hear you?"

"If Aramis hears too, why not?"

"If he's even still in France…"

"Alright," Constance said, patting Porthos's arm reassuringly. "Everyone just calm down. I know you're worried, but perhaps Aramis was only delayed. My worry is that Rochefort won't tell you where he is," she said.

"That's why we came to you," Athos agreed, giving another passer by a harsh glare when he smiled flirtatiously at Constance. D'Artagnan's foot suddenly jutted from beneath the table, sending the man flying head first to the ground. Constance rolled her eyes. And now _she_ missed Aramis, too.

He usually helped her to dissuade the more flirtatious types with more finesse. Meaning that they played verbal games with the drunken sots until they stumbled away embarrassed and confused by the witty interplay. "The Queen has more influence over Rochefort than we do. Perhaps she can get the truth out of him," she nodded thoughtfully. "And if all else fails, we'll scour the countryside together," she added cheerfully.

"Now that's more like it," Porthos sighed, leaning back into his seat tiredly. Constance studied the three men from the corner of her eye, noting the bags of sleeplessness they were all sporting. Her heart melted. She had never been envious of the bond the four men shared for more than one reason. It was as if none could function if they weren't assured of the immediate safety of the others.

"You all should get some rest," she told them gently, reaching out to pluck some lint from D'Artagnan's hair. She did the same to Porthos until he swatted at her hands playfully. She smiled in relief when the large man ducked his head, hiding the grin she had managed to force out of him. "Aramis won't be pleased when he returns to find you all have run yourself ragged."

"Then he shouldn't have left at all," Athos growled, merciless. Constance arched her brows at him. D'Artagnan had told her about the tenseness between him and Aramis as of late. She wondered when he would finally just come out and admit whatever it was, though Constance had a bad feeling she already knew.

"He'll come home," she promised again. "Has Treveille not spoken with the King about it?" The three brothers exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.

"Treveille isn't the King's favorite servant at the moment," D'Artagnan told her. "Nor are we," Constance nodded, thinking that if possible, he looked even cuter while sporting the lost puppy dog look.

"Well, if its any consolation, I don't think the King likes anyone at the moment," she agreed. "I doesn't matter though, _one_ of us will prevail. And who knows? Maybe Aramis is riding back this moment, smiling and whistling badly as usual," D'Artagnan's eyes lit up a smidge, and Constance counted her work partially finished.

"I thought Aramis drove you crazy with his whistling," D'Artagnan teased. Constance kicked him under the table. "Ow!"

"He does," she agreed while Porthos laughed and Athos's mouth quirked at the corners. "You all drive me crazy, though. Which is why you're my favorites. Now, off with you!" She stood, waving them to their feet. The three men obeyed like petulant children. "Stop sulking in corners like vagabonds and be King's guards, for goodness sakes! I'll send word when the Queen has told me what she knows," she said.

Athos sighed and nabbed his hat, setting it upon his head with a flourish. "We are in your debt, Constance," he told her. Porthos squished her to his side in a one-armed hug, kissing her on the forehead chastely.

"Wish we could make you a Musketeer," he rumbled. Constance smiled, sadly. D'Artagnan took her right hand, bending over to lay a kiss on her knuckle.

"She's a Musketeer in all but Pauldron, Porthos," he chided his friend. A tingle of pleasure shot through her arm from where he had kissed her, making her blush. "You know that."

Porthos chuckled and pressed himself past their table and toward the door. Athos squeezed her shoulder silently as he passed and D'Artagnan gave her another gentlemanly smile before following.

Constance watched them go and did not let her smile drop until they were far out of sight. Though she had been reassuring for them, she could deny the shiver of apprehension that was making her neck hairs raise. There was something about this circumstance- something about Aramis's disappearance- that made her nervous.

 _The Queen will find out,_ she told herself, already collecting the stray edges of her dress and stepping into the sunlight. _We'll bring him home._


	2. Chapter 2

_A week Later:_

It was getting harder, by the day, to stay angry at him. Not for lack of trying. Athos found himself still occasionally snapping whenever the man's name was brought up, but it was less from anger now than outright fear.

It was burgeoning on two weeks now. No word. No confirmation. Rochefort refused to answer Treveille, and he had only assured the Queen that Aramis was doing important work in Southern France. To add to the endless headaches, Rochefort kept sending Musketeers out of the city, leaving nearly everyone in the Garrison strung with worry that their comrades, like Aramis, would not return.

 _"Is he trying to break us up?" D'Artagnan had asked a few hours earlier, as he and Porthos mounted their horses. Athos watched them with no small amount of trepidation. Treveille had finally cracked beneath Porthos's constant interrogation and told him the name of his father. Though, Athos suspected it was more to save the two men from being called away by Rochefort than anything. Athos had volunteered to stay behind in case a development with Aramis came along._

 _He did not regret it, but his heart was thudding a bit harder than usual. He couldn't imagine losing all three of them. "If he is, he's doing it mighty sneaky like," Porthos grunted. Originally, he had insisted that the family reunion wait until they located Aramis, but Athos had convinced him to go. Aramis would have wanted it._

 _"He's doing the same to the Red Guard too," D'Artagnan pointed out. "Five more were sent on an errand to the countryside. Two more of our men as well. Athos," he turned to fix him with a pleading look. "I don't like this. Why don't you come with Porthos and I? If you're here, Rochefort can send you away too," he told him._

 _Porthos jumped into the stirrup, leaning forward to rest his elbows against the beast's neck. "My heart can't take two brothers missin'," he agreed. "Just c'mon 'Thos. I'm not so sure about Treveille's honesty these days, but I don't doubt he'd send word if he got any headway on Aramis," he told him. Athos hesitated, considering their proposition, if only so he could keep an eye on them. Finally, he shook his head._

 _"I can't," he replied. "I also have a… Contact I need to see about our missing brother. I can only meet them here. Besides," he slapped Porthos's leg, forcing a smile unto his face. "Family reunions have never been my area of expertise. Go. Be careful," he tried not to let it sound like a plea, but it came out that way all the same._

 _D'Artagnan squeezed his shoulder, brows furrowed worriedly. "You too, brother," he murmured._

 _Porthos reached a hand down. Athos grabbed it in a warrior's grip, looked up into serious brown eyes. Early morning sunlight streamed into the otherwise empty Garrison, covering Porthos in a halo of light. It suddenly occurred to Athos that, should he never see him again, he would not be unhappy to always remember Porthos like this. Surrounded by golden light. "If you get anything…" Porthos began quietly._

 _"I shall send for you immediately," Athos promised._

 _"Don't let him take you away, Athos," Porthos begged. "Don't you dare not be here when we return," Athos nodded and released the hand, taking a step back._

 _"He won't be allowed to separate us again," he swore quietly. He swatted the horse nearest to him, making it trot forward. "Go. Go now, my friends," he watched them depart, feeling his chest constrict with rare emotion. What would he do if they didn't return?_

 _"Godspeed."_

"Well," the voice of his contact purred, slipping into the booth across from him. Athos raised his head. In the dim room of the tavern, the layers of cloth draped about her shoulders made her look like an apparition.

Nevertheless, he could still make out those eyes that had once so enchanted him. They were as blue and icy as he remembered. "I certainly didn't expect you to keep our appointment." Athos removed his hat, pushing a glass of champagne her way.

"I seem to recall this was your favorite," he murmured, hating himself for how vividly he recalled all things pertaining to her. Anne grinned, revealing the gap between her teeth he used to adore, and took the cup. She downed the champagne with all the civility of a woman in the court.

"Ah," she breathed when she was done. "What bliss. And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" She asked.

Athos leaned forward, kept his gaze firmly locked over her shoulder. He could smell the sweetness of her perfume, see the smooth outline of her neck and shoulders… "I need a favor," he began.

Anne snorted. "From me? You'd rather run yourself through with a sword. Why am I really here?" She demanded.

Athos couldn't fault her skepticism. His stomach roiled at just being so near… But this was family. "It's Aramis," he sighed. "He was sent on an assignment by Rochefort nearly two weeks ago. No one knows where he is, or the particulars of what he's doing. There has been no word from him," now he allowed himself to meet her gaze, reluctantly. She was staring at him intently, like a cat watching its favorite bird sing.

"So why come to me?" She asked after a contemplative silence.

"You're close to the King," his head spun nauseously. He was under no illusions as to what that closeness implied. "Neither he nor Rochefort have answered Treveille or the Queen. I figured you could try," Anne sat back, crossing her legs daintily. Her gaze pierced his soul, and he was forced to look over her shoulder again.

"And why would I do that?" She hissed. "Risk what I have with the king for one of your ignorant friends? I live in a palace now, Athos. A _palace._ I get jewels and endless goblets of champagne," she raised the cup mockingly, setting it down with a clang. He refused to flinch. Anne leaned forward, and the caverns between her breasts opened, gawping. Athos exhaled slowly, cursing himself for a fool and Aramis for being missing. "What reason would I possibly have to help you?" She demanded.

Athos's hand moved of its own accord, his subconscious doing what he could not. He gripped her delicate hand, felt where the bones shifted. "Because _I'm_ asking," he replied, quietly.

She did not look impressed. "Can _you_ give me a palace, jewels and endless champagne?"

Athos's mouth quirked at the edges. "I can give you my eternal gratitude."

"That doesn't sound like a dry place to sleep at night."

Her humor had always been a reason he loved her. It stung now, to listen to her jabs and know they did not come from love but… Somewhere else. A sudden bang made her jump, swiveling around in her chair to glare at the door. Athos looked up, snatching his hand from her to rest on his pistol holster.

A Red Guard stumbled inside, singing drunkenly. Athos wrestled his mind back to the work at hand. "You don't have to jeopardize your work with the King," he began again. "You can approach Rochefort," Anne relaxed into her seat slowly, eyes still locked unto the door.

"Rochefort doesn't trust me."

Athos pulled his hat further onto his head, hiding his face as another Musketeer waltzed past, buttoning his pants hurriedly. A maid followed him, grinning and pinning up her hair cheerily. Athos's heart panged.

 _Aramis._

His desperation peaked. "He doesn't have too. He just has to give you a hint as to Aramis's whereabouts."

"You still haven't told me what I get out of this."

"What do you want?" Anne seemed to deliberate for a moment.

"Transport," she replied after a moment. "Oh please," she scoffed upon seeing Athos's raised brows. "I'm no fool. I can't hold the King's attention forever, especially now that his son has come along. Eventually, I'll be sent away or disgraced by his Majesty, and when that happens, I plan on going to England. I'll need reliable transport," Athos's eyes narrowed.

"That's all you want?"

"If you _do_ have a palace you neglected to mention, now would be the time to offer it." They both knew his estate was the equivalent of a mansion, but he doubted she would want to return to the place where she had been hanged.

"Touché. You have my word on it. When can I expect your report?"

Anne stood. "Within a fortnight. Getting in contact with the first minister of France isn't easy, you know," Athos followed suit, executing a bow that would have made women in the court swoon. It only caused her to sneer at him.

"You have my thanks, mi'lady," Anne studied him in the dim light as he straightened, silent.

Then; "you've really found your place among them, haven't you?" Athos returned her gaze steadily.

"They're my family now." They felt like… So much more when he thought about it. Usually in his drunken stupors. Both his downfall and salvation, those three would never stop giving him gray hairs. Nor would they ever cease to grant him enormous joy. Joy beyond reckoning. Anne nodded.

"I see," and then she had turned, and for not the last time, Athos let her walk away.


	3. Chapter 3

"You could have shot me," Treveille blurted, halfway into the Garrison. Porthos looked around, swinging himself from his mount. It had been nearly a week since he had last seen this place. It looked so empty now, desolate almost. The few Musketeers that had accompanied Treveille to aid in the rescue were weary, retiring without word to their separate apartments.

D'Artagnan took the reins of Porthos's horse, jerking his head back toward Treveille in a simple _speak to him_ gesture. They had not said a word to each other since returning from his father's estate. Porthos sighed and turned to his Captain.

The other man seemed to have aged at least twenty years in two weeks. There were dark rings beneath his eyes, which though sparkling with determination, were filled with foreboding. Being stripped of his captaincy had done something to him, although no one in the Garrison treated him any different.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, watching D'Artagnan walk away, unconsciously searching for his two other brothers as he did.

"Why didn't you?" Porthos gave a mild half shrug.

"I knew he was lyin' to me. I knew it the second he showed me the portrait of some strange woman. Besides," he smiled thinly, recognizing the truth in his own words, feeling a bit of himself settle with the revelation. "My mother would have liked you. She was always the forgiving type. I know I earned my way here, with my brothers. Don't need a Pauldron or a man to justify it," Treveille nodded, clapping him on the back.

"I'm glad you know that," he said, some of that old optimism in his eyes again. Then, it softened into the fatherly affection Porthos had always associated with the man. "I believe Aramis would have been proud of you today," he murmured. Porthos's head snapped around, smiling.

"Yeah."

"D'Artagnan, Porthos!" A voice echoed from above. Porthos looked up, saw Athos standing on the balcony, Constance at his side. He was waving a piece of paper in the air, his expression morphed into smug satisfaction. Porthos's heart skipped a beat.

"Athos? What is that?" Treveille called.

"It's a letter!" Constance squealed. "From Aramis!" Porthos ran up the stairs without a moment's hesitation, feeling more than seeing D'Artagnan right on his heels. Treveille followed a second later, grinning through the excited chatter of their threesome.

"How did you get that?"

"How was the reunion?"

"Tell you later. Where is the idiot?"

"When did it arrive? Have you read it yet?"

"Rochefort hasn't been bringin trouble here, has 'e?"

"Did the Queen send that?"

"Alright, alright!" Athos yelled, chuckling softly. Porthos couldn't recall ever seeing him so pleased. His eyes twinkled with poorly hidden triumph, and he walked like a man who had just found out he'd inherited the world. Constance closed the door to Treveille's office as they all scrambled inside, Porthos and D'Artagnan flocking Athos as he sat in one of the large chairs. The Captain sat at the edge of his desk, leaning forward eagerly. Constance took the other seat.

"I've yet to read it. Constance brought it over not more than ten minutes ago. You've come just in time," Athos assured them.

"You?" D'Artagnan beamed at Constance. "The Queen gave you this?"

"No," Constance replied slowly, exchanging a look with Athos. "Mi'lady De Winter."

Porthos froze, listening to the blood roaring in his ears. He stared at Athos, who did not meet any gaze but kept his eyes on the floor below him. "You went to _her_?" D'Artagnan growled, eyes flashing.

"Who else could I turn too?" Athos wondered, quietly. Porthos sighed, reaching down to squeeze Athos's shoulder.

"'Mis will appreciate it," he assured him quietly. _And we will talk about this again_ , he added in his mind. He tugged lightly at the folded letter, noting the stamp on its face. It was the stamp of an… Accountant? Athos noticed his confused look and shrugged. Treveille turned, opening the windows to let in more light.

"I don't know how Anne got this, but I decided not to ask. We'll know if it's from Aramis by the handwriting," he quickly unfolded it, leaning over the words the second they came into light. Porthos reached down; and felt relief cascade through him when he recognized the familiar scrawls of Aramis's hand. He sagged, resting a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder lest he collapse. D'Artagnan let out an exhilarated laugh, swiping a hand across his cheeks.

The muscles in Athos's shoulders unwound. "It's from him."

"Read it aloud, Athos!" Constance demanded. Athos nodded and opened his mouth.

 _My brothers,_

 _I pray that this letter will reach you, by whatever means God has planned. I don't know if I should trust the man who assures me he can reach Paris, but by now, I'm too desperate for miracles to wonder at their conception. Assuming this letter will reach you, I foremost should report that I alive and mostly well._

"Mostly?" Porthos demanded. D'Artagnan shushed him and Athos went on.

 _I say mostly because I am beyond tired, dear Porthos. I have visited perhaps three cities in France since I last saw you, never knowing where I will be sent next until the last mission concludes. Rochefort contacts me by carrier, and his timing is disturbingly uncanny. He always knows when I have begun, arrived and finished a mission. Even now, I write this letter in a secret attic of a very amicable accountant; I fear Rochefort has people watching me._

"That explains much," Treveille blurted, rubbing his chin. Porthos looked up, arching an eyebrow at him, but there was more to the letter, so he ducked again to listen.

 _I feel as if I should also apologize for not informing you all of my whereabouts (I can imagine your ire, Athos) but please know even I was not aware of where I was being sent. Rochefort only approached me that morning and sent the details along with me when I rode out. He promised I would be gone but a few hours, and I was foolish enough to believe him. I regret it now. Everywhere he's sent me has been… Increasingly disturbing. First a prison in Bordeaux…_

Athos paused, squinting at the word as if it had deceived him. "Bordeaux?" Constance added, confusedly. "That's near the border of Spain. Why…?"

"Because Rochefort is a lying scum," Porthos replied, feeling his skin tight and hot from rage. Athos shook his head, continuing.

 _…Where I was forced to aid in the interrogation of a Spanish spy. I doubt he was a spy. He was no more than perhaps thirteen years old, and terribly frightened. I could tell the guards had already begun torturing him when I arrived, and for his sake, I barely left his room for more than ten minutes for fear he would be beaten again. I demanded to know his crimes but was only told he was a traitor who had cost innocent people their lives._

 _Personally, I think he was chosen to be a scapegoat. It was obvious he was like me, of Spanish ancestry, but he spoke French like any other citizen. I tried telling the prison authorities this, but they laughed at me, and I was deployed on another assignment before I could press the issue. Admittedly, they did lose the Spanish spy. I wonder where he could have gone?_

"That's my boy, Aramis!" D'Artagnan crowed, delighted.

 _I admit that I miss you three terribly and pray to God each day that He keeps you safe and hale. I saw Bernard, of the Red Guard, limping in a town I was in a few days ago. To my (everlasting) surprise, he was thrilled to see me. We had drinks. He told me that members of the Musketeers and Red Guards have all received mysterious assignments such as mine. Bernard himself was sent to bury those executed for treason. He said there were so many hung they would have filled a small town, and women and children were among the dead. I've heard similar tales from others I've encountered._

 _I don't mean to concern you, but something isn't right here, my friends. There is no end to my worrying about you three. Do me a favor, and do not draw attention to yourselves, do not give Rochefort a reason to send you away. Forgive me, but I am running out of time. I will soon be discovered if I dally. I would tell you where I am now, but by the time this letter reaches you, I predict I'll be somewhere else. I don't know where Rochefort will send me, but he seems to keep us spread over Southern France. I wish I could give you more; I'd do anything not to miss your Birthday D'Artagnan._

 _And now I'm running out of paper. I wish it were not so. Even unsure if this letter will ever reach you, writing it has given me a peace I have not had since I left the Garrison. Athos, tell Porthos not to worry himself into fits. Porthos, make sure D'Artagnan focuses on the well-being of his weapons (and his love life). D'Artagnan, tell Athos to stop scowling and stay away from the bottle. And all of you listen to Constance. Hopefully, I will return soon, with our brothers in tow. Until then, be safe, take care of each other, and know that I am always thinking of you. After all,_

 _All for one,_

 _Aramis._

When Athos finished reading, he sank back into his seat as if the words had drained him. Porthos sniffled, wiping at the itchy tracks tears had left on his face. D'Artagnan leaned against his arm, chuckling a little. "At least he's alive," he breathed.

Porthos nodded, patting their youngest on the arm. "He's under surveillance," Athos pointed out, darkly. Porthos hummed his agreement, walking over to join Treveille on the table.

"I don't like those errands Rochefort has 'im runnin either," he muttered.

"Burying bodies of women and children? Interrogating a beaten child? That sounds more like work for a mercenary, not one of the King's soldiers," Constance worried. Athos set the letter down gingerly, reaching up to rub at his temples. Porthos watched him, his concern shifting. Athos looked as if he hadn't slept in the week they'd been gone.

"Captain? Do you have any insight?" Athos wondered.

Treveille shook his head. "The things Aramis described are as disturbing to me as they are you. I can hardly approach Rochefort about this either. He'd know we've been in contact with Aramis, and who knows what he could have done to him," Porthos shivered at the thought. If Rochefort was able to convict and torture an innocent _kid_ because of his looks, what did that say about Aramis?

He jammed a knuckle into his cheek, squirming. "I wish there were a way to tell 'im we're getting the letters. He sounds just as worried for us as we are for 'im," he pointed out.

"He doesn't even know where he'll be next, or when he's going to receive his next orders," D'Artagnan added. "How will Mi'lady find him this time?"

"She will," Athos spoke up, a little too quickly for Porthos's liking. "I've no doubt she will."

"Uh huh," Porthos snorted, sticking Athos with a severe look. "What did you offer her anyway? Your soul?" Athos's mouth stretched into a thin imitation of a smile.

"Nothing so permanent, my friend. She merely wants transport for when the King's favor switches to the next pretty face," Constance laughed aloud.

"So, next week?" She clarified. Athos bowed his head to her superior insight.

"Essentially," he agreed. He then turned to Porthos. "Perhaps Anne will consent to sending a small token with her next correspondence. Something Aramis will know is from us. What could we send?" Porthos's heart lightened at the suggestion.

"I've just the thing!" he cried, jumping to his feet. He rummaged about in the pockets he had sewn into his jacket, searching for the one which held the small token. D'Artagnan watched him with amusement.

"Should have known there were secret pouches in that jacket. Where else would you hide the cards you use to cheat?" he teased.

"Should I tell Her Majesty about this?" Constance asked.

Athos and Treveille exchanged a look that made Porthos's heart skip a beat. "We have too!" He exploded. "She should know what Rochefort is doing!"

"What could she do about it? Approach Rochefort? That would place all of us- not to mention Aramis- in grave danger," Treveille sighed. "None of us have any credibility here, Porthos. I've been struck from my post. We're all regular soldiers now. Our hands are tied. I'm afraid we must simply do as Aramis suggested, and keep our heads down until we have a plan," he said.

He laid a restraining hand on Porthos's arm. "Which means we cannot send anything to Aramis. If and when we do something about this situation, we don't know if his knowing our involvement will be a detriment or not." Porthos snatched his arm away as if Treveille had burned him, his ire whipping into place with hot fluidity.

"You honestly believe _Aramis_ would sell us out?" He hissed.

Treveille looked aghast at the mere suggestion. "Of course not. But it's safer this way, Porthos. Yesterday, I could never have dreamed these developments would take place. Who knows what unimaginable things could occur tomorrow?" He asked. Porthos snorted, wondering if this was the same train of thought that had led to Treveille keeping his father's identity from him, to keeping the circumstances of Savoy from Aramis… _Damn it,_ he was tired of this endless stream of… Riddles and secrets.

"Sounds like you have trust issues there, _Captain._ Don't assume everyone else is so skilled at keepin secrets…"

"Porthos!" Athos scolded. "That's enough. Fighting each other will avail us nothing. We need a to bide our time; and have a plan. Aramis is strong; he'll hold unto his faith and integrity for as long as need be. In the meantime, keep the Queen appraised of the situation. The _whole_ situation," he amended when he saw Treveille open his mouth to protest.

"She isn't a child, Treveille. Besides, when the time comes, I would like _one_ Sovereign on our side if it can be helped. Porthos is right in that regard. Secrets rarely save anyone." Porthos scowled at his friend, thunderously.

"The Queen can convince Rochefort to keep you in Paris, also," Constance offered. Porthos couldn't care less about Rochefort or the politics of court at the moment.

"We 'ave to send him something, 'Thos! He's worried sick wherever he is!"

"Why don't we send _him_ a letter? A note?" D'Artagnan suggested hopefully.

"Or something less conspicuous. Something that can't be intercepted, just in case Rochefort's spies catch word of what's happening," Constance argued.

"I'm _tellin'_ you, I have just the thing," Porthos insisted, once again going to his pockets.

"This isn't just Aramis at stake here," Treveille argued, throwing up his arms in exasperation. "It's the twelve other Musketeers Rochefort has sent away. The ten Red Guards. There's an intricate plan here bigger than us all. Would you really risk all of them to assuage Aramis's conscience?" He demanded.

"In a heartbeat," Porthos grunted.

"C'mon Captain," D'Artagnan needled. "It's almost my birthday. Let me have this one thing," Treveille stuck him with a bland look which made Porthos's hackles raise. Perhaps he was not so prone to forgiveness after all. That was usually Aramis's job. As if the thought had conjured the object, Porthos's fingers wrapped around the tiny object. He laughed in victory, holding out a small wooden whistle.

"What the _hell_ is that?" Treveille gasped.

Athos genuinely smiled. "The whistle," he recalled. Porthos nodded.

"Oh, no, not that thing again!" Constance groaned, cradling her head in her hands, despairing of them. D'Artagnan shook his head, flabbergasted.

"Explain, please," he requested.

"When we first met Athos, he was like you are today. Less prone to chatter, but reckless just the same," Porthos told him. "Used to get into drunken fights, see? He got so bloodied up this one night that I carved out this whistle for 'im. The next time he wanted to fight, all he had to do was whistle… Me an' Aramis would come runnin," he remembered.

Athos shook his head slowly, as if still in wonder. "In those days, I wasn't aware that these two hopeless fools were still following me wherever I went, trying to dissuade me from drinking myself to death and to become a Musketeer instead. As you can see," he glanced at his left shoulder, then up to Porthos, with exasperated warmth. "They were very persuasive." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder.

"You're welcome," He chortled.

"You actually _used_ the whistle?" D'Artagnan asked.

"Only once," Athos assured him.

"It was the night I met the three of them," Constance harrumphed. "I had just been married to Monsieur Bonacieux. I was drying his laundry outside the hostel when I heard a scuffle in the back alley. I go to investigate and find Athos sword fighting. It was all very impressive, but he was outnumbered six to one. And he was drunk. I could tell he wasn't the one who started it because the others were known on the streets for stealing decent people's money."

"Notably, I had neither decency nor money, thus the reason for the dispute…"

"Of course I had to do something about it…"

Porthos took up the tale with relish. "So she throws a sheet atop the head of one o 'is assailants, and uses a broom to strike ta other upside the head. The one she blinded recovered however, and now she _and_ Athos were both in danger o being killed. Should've known only a threat to someone else would make you blow this stupid thing," he told Athos, who shrugged.

"It was embarrassing, but effective. Aramis and Porthos were only a few blocks away, trying to find me. When they heard me puffing on that infernal whistle, they came immediately, and all went well. Though I have to say, you weren't too pleased to meet us," he recalled, pointing his stare to Constance.

She crossed her arms and harrumphed. "That's because Aramis instantly tried to flirt with me and didn't let up until I slapped him. You were soaked to the bone and smelt of alcohol, and Porthos had just bashed in a man's head with his foot, then farted. I counted all of you mad," D'Artagnan laughed.

"Which isn't entirely untrue," Treveille pointed out, though a smile was tickling his mouth. "You want Mi'lady's informant to give Aramis _that_?"

Porthos shrugged and handed the object to Athos, who studied it with fondness. "Why not? Aramis'll recognize it. Besides, no one will think it critical or amiss if the gentleman drops a whistle for 'im to find."

"I can't believe you kept this," Athos marveled.

"Hey, better safe than sorry, eh? So, we sendin it or what?" Athos nodded and stowed the whistle away in his pocket.

"I'll give it to her," he promised. "And he can return it when he returns home."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Two weeks later:_**

"Is she here?" D'Artagnan turned when the next draft blew in, fairly jumping from his seat. His expression fell when it was just Porthos to walk into the room, holding some form of food or present. D'Artagnan smiled, touched.

Porthos's gift was a platter of steaming food, from the expensive crab Athos had managed to barter from a sailor, to the small chocolate croissants the queen had sent by way of Constance. D'Artagnan had been touched by the exchange, but now he stood at the head of the table, feeling increasingly like a small child again. This was his first birthday as a Musketeer.

Technically, D'Artagnan's birthday had been a week before, but he had insisted on waiting until Aramis's next letter came to celebrate it. Now they just had to wait for Constance to come…

"D'Artagnan," Porthos began. Setting his platter upon the table gently. "You're sure you wanna celebrate today? 'Mis might not have some good things to say in his letter," he warned. D'Artagnan had already thought of that. He grinned, impishly.

"No use in talking him out of it, _mon ami,"_ Athos sighed, moving past him to the cupboards. He pulled out a sparkling bottle of brandy, setting it next to the platter of steaming food reverently. "My brother's last gift to me," he explained when he saw D'Artagnan's curious glance. "He insisted it must sit for at least ten years before it was to be enjoyed. I believe we're close enough to hitting our mark," D'Artagnan's eyes widened, and he grabbed the nozzle of the bottle before Athos could open it.

"Athos, wait… Don't you… I mean, if this was Thomas's… I'm honored but I can't possibly…" He stuttered, trying in vain to find the right words to express both his gratitude and horror that Athos would utilize such a gift now, for _his_ birthday. Porthos came over and set a hand over his, watching Athos with palpable worry.

"You don't have to do this," he breathed. "We understand if you can't," Athos did not meet their gaze for the longest moment, silently fighting some inner demon, before he shook his head and looked up.

"I want to," he stated, with finality. His hand beneath theirs rippled, and D'Artagnan heard the curt hiss of air long repressed. He stepped back, humbled and a bit frightened.

"Well, then let's drink!" Porthos crowed, snagging a cup from Athos's stash. They usually met in the Comte's larger apartment for times such as these. Though farther from the Garrison than anyone else's residence, it was more comfortable, and with enough room to allow the four of them- _now three,_ a treacherous voice in D'Artagnan's mind whispered- to relax and reminisce.

"To D'Artagnan's good health and many wise years!" Porthos continued, clinking his glass against D'Artagnan's. Athos did the same, squeezing his shoulder.

"Years of decency and brotherhood," he added quietly. D'Artagnan grinned, clinking his cup against both of theirs.

"I'm honored," he told Athos when Porthos had downed his drink, moving to answer a quick succession of knocks at the door. Athos dipped his head, slightly, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

"All for one," he said simply as a cold draft was ushered into the room alongside Constance. As the weeks had passed, summer had gradually been bowing its head to the fall. The green leaves bristling and blushing vibrant hues of red and orange. Rochefort had not yet sent any of them outside the limits of Paris, though D'Artagnan expected Her Majesty's demands on their behalf to lose their potency soon.

"Who started drinking without me?" Constance demanded as she waltzed inside, sounding hurt. Porthos took her jacket, hanging it next to the door.

"D'Artagnan," he instantly told her, flashing a wicked smile so like Aramis's that D'Artagnan had to turn away. Then, he realized what he had just been accused of.

"What?!" He squawked as Constance marched over and promptly smacked him across the face. "Ow!"

"Constance, please," Athos said, holding out a hand to accept the rolled paper she had in hand. "Today we celebrate his birth. Don't give him an early grave quite yet," he requested dryly.

"No promises," Constance sniffed, snatching a croissant from the tray and gesturing for Athos to read the letter. "Well, go on! Porthos here is fairly vibrating with his need to know, and D'Artagnan wanted only this for his birthday. Read the letter!" D'Artagnan nodded exuberantly when Athos looked to him.

"D'Artagnan, give Madame Bonacieux some brandy please, and then eat your cake. Porthos sit down. I can't concentrate when you're breathing down my neck," he commanded.

"Pushy, pushy," Porthos teased, but nevertheless, he obeyed, taking a seat at the round table with more grace than a ballet dancer. Athos sat across from him, and when D'Artagnan had poured Constance a generous cup of brandy (a feat which earned him a kiss on the cheek, and made his face burn red consequently) he sat across from them. Constance sat in Aramis's usual seat, watching Athos intently.

"The stamp is from a cobbler, this time," she pointed out. D'Artagnan sighed. Aramis had moved cities again, so it seemed.

Athos cleared his throat as he unfolded the paper. Instantly, a small ribbon fluttered to the ground, colored a dark blue with stripes of mahogany and purple. Athos scooped it in hand curiously, eyeing it.

"It's of exquisite fabric," he told them, handing it to Porthos. "What do you think it means?"

"Read the letter and find out!" Constance urged them as Porthos shrugged, handing the small ribbon to D'Artagnan instead.

 _My brothers,_

 _You are indeed strange fellows, a fact for which I am eternally grateful. When I first saw a wooden whistle (it had dropped from the usual messenger's pocket. Strange coincidence, hm?) I was mystified. I swore I had seen it before; but could not recall when or where. It wasn't until I used it that I remembered the sound, and I probably scared the living daylights out of this poor vagabond who was sleeping in my new hiding spot when I laughed aloud._

"Vagabond?! He has vagabonds watching his back now?" Porthos groaned.

"You know how he makes friends with _lost causes,"_ Athos sighed. Constance giggled.

 _I can hardly believe you've kept this (Porthos) but it gladdened my heart to have confirmation that you are indeed receiving these letters. I don't know how you've managed it (I suspect it has something to do with your endless connections, my dear Athos) but I thank you for your thoughtfulness. Not a day goes past when I do not worry one of you has gotten himself injured or scarred, and I am not around to offer my incredible skills in needlework. Since you've somehow located me, I assume you realize that Rochefort's word is as good as void._

"No kidding," Porthos grumbled.

 _What I thought would be a mission of a few hours has turned into weeks. I can't express how disappointed I am to miss D'Artagnan's first birthday as a Musketeer. It took me a whole day to find a apt substitute for my unforgivable absence, small enough to be enclosed in this letter. It's the ribbon. It doesn't look like much, I know, but it's an old soldier's tradition that a man is presented a new ribbon at the completion of some great life trial. He ties the ribbon about the pommel of his sword as proof of his gallantry and strength. The ribbon you have is for having overcome adversity. I think your father would agree with me that you have faced many trials this year, D'Artagnan, and faced them all with the compassion and courage a true Musketeer should possess. I know I speak for those other two when I say your commission fills me with pride._

"Well, he ain't wrong," Porthos said, smiling at D'Artagnan.

"Not at all," Athos agreed, eyes still scanning the letter. His tone was genuine however. Constance reached forward and laid a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder as he desperately tried to fight back tears. He could only nod thankfully at their words, swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat.

Damn it, he _missed_ Aramis. He had thought that reading the letter at his celebration would make it so that they felt his presence more keenly, as if he were there, but it had the opposite effect. He felt all the more aware of his absence, and then guilty as he realized that over time, they had all become _accustomed_ to his absence. He slid the ribbon between his fingers, clutching it like a lifeline.

 _As for things here, well, I've never toured France so much in my life. In the three weeks since your whistle found its way to me, I have been given orders in seven different cities. There is no rest for the weary. Though I hear The Dauphin is doing well, which gives me hope for a brighter day. Not much else does these days, I am afraid. The work I have been instructed to do is… Grueling. Confusing at the best times and downright wrong at the worst. I am struggling to make the best of things, and retain my honor, but even that requires some… Moral compromise these days._

 _I have not seen another Red Guard or Musketeer for weeks. Though, I did hear from a merchant that two were mysteriously found murdered in Theron last week. I sleep with both pistols beneath my pillow. I cannot help but feel I am forever being watched or hunted; perhaps both._

 _But forgive me. I don't mean to cause you undue stress. Things are not all bad here. I met a kind widow some time ago in Montpellier. She had a young son who begged me to teach him sword play. I had a few hours to spare; and spent a very pleasant afternoon with them, endlessly boasting about my three brothers who accompany me on daring adventures. The boy does have some potential, and I tried to encourage him best I could. He reminded me a bit of you, my dear Porthos, and I could not help but feel pleased that I may have helped bring another good soul into the Garrison one day._

 _How is the Garrison? I can hardly remember what it looks like by now. Though I remember the people distinctly. I hope you aren't neglecting our other brothers just out of worry for me. There are a great many things I miss (you three most of all) but as of late, I find myself craving some of Serge's chicken raspberry soup. It was the first thing he made for me after Savoy and well… My mind has been wandering there lately._

Porthos's breath caught in his throat. Athos's voice hitched while D'Artagnan laid his head on the table.

"I'm goin to kill Rochefort," Porthos growled. "We should be with him!"

Athos nodded once, regained control of himself, and continued.

 _It's fine. I'm fine. I shouldn't worry you. I comfort myself knowing you are safe and together, as it should be. Don't fret, we'll see each other again soon. But alas, I'm running out of paper again so let me warn you of this now: something is brewing in the South. Merchants are beginning to sell all their goods. I see fortresses and walls springing up about important cities and in the forests. Sailors embark on long journeys and avoid the land like it's a plague. Anyone who looks remotely Spanish are abandoning their homes and heading to the motherland. Subsequently, I have met many a Frenchman and woman who are returning here, fearing a growing dissent in Spain. My friends, I am loath to say, but I fear we are preparing for war._

Athos stopped, his entire face bleaching of color.

Porthos groaned and sat back in his seat, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes tiredly. Constance's mouth dropped, and she sat there gawping for a long moment.

D'Artagnan's breath hitched in his chest. "War?" He gasped.

"With Spain," Porthos muttered. "Of course. That's what Rochefort has been stewing up this whole time. He's eliminating targets…"

"Stirring up hostilities," Athos added.

"Preparing the south for siege," Constance murmured.

"War," D'Artagnan's stomach rebelled against the unfamiliar word. Once, it had been a thing of fairytales, as far away from his life as castles and carriages. Now, both things had come so near they were liable to destroy him.

And his brothers.

 _Once more, I beg you to be careful. I don't know what I expect you to do with this knowledge, but whatever you choose, Godspeed. The King, and France, might need you soon. As usual, Athos, tell Porthos not to go about starting tavern brawls for a few coins. Porthos, tell D'Artagnan Happy Birthday for me, and to keep his wits about him. D'Artagnan, tell Athos that he's not shaking us off yet. All of you listen to Constance. I pray I will see you soon, so we might fight together a_ _s we were meant to._

 _Your Brother,_

 _Aramis._

For a long moment, they sat in complete silence, absorbing the message Aramis had just delivered to them. D'Artagnan's fingers relentlessly played with his gift, twisting the soft fabric round his fingers until he couldn't feel them anymore.

 _The ribbon you have is for overcoming adversity_.

Adversity. It seemed he would have to continue to overcome in the coming days. His head swam. After a moment, he felt a hand on the side of his face and looked up, blinking. He realized there were tears trickling around his nose. Porthos's expression was soft as he beheld him, his own eyes twinkling with unshed grief.

Nevertheless, he mustered a brave smile. He was a good big brother. "Happy Birthday," he whispered, as per Aramis's instructions.

D'Artagnan barked an aching laugh and reached over to clink his empty glass against Porthos's. "To overcoming adversity," he said.

Porthos nodded. "All for one," he agreed softly. Constance picked up her glass.

"To Aramis coming home," she breathed. D'Artagnan turned to his mentor, chewed his upper lip nervously for a moment before breaching the silence.

"Athos?"

But the other man only stood to his feet, and silently walked out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Ok, we're going to deviate from the show... A lot here. Please just hang in there.

* * *

 _A month later:_

When the next note came, it was just as Constance waltzed through the door, followed closely by Lady de Winter. D'Artagnan rushed to Constance's side with a cry of joy, and Porthos watched them embrace, smiling. The smile dropped when _she_ came in, scowling in disgust when her eyes landed on the reunion. Mi'lady turned, giving Athos a petulant smile as he approached her with a bottle of champagne.

"Thank you," Porthos heard him tell her, eyes somehow more… Alive in her presence. As if she were the sun, equally painful as life giving. "For saving her life."

Milady shrugged. "I think I'll need that transport now," she purred, simply. Athos nodded, noticed Porthos watching them, and jerked his head toward the door. _Check it._ They had finished their battle not an hour before, and complacency had been the undoing of many a soldier.

Even though they were in The Garrison, supposedly safe for now, he carried no illusions as to the relative tranquility of Paris in the wake of all that had just happened. Rochefort had accused the Queen of treason, had Constance arrested, thrown accusations at his absent best friend…

His heart had nearly jumped out of his chest when he'd heard the news. It was _ridiculous_. Not even Aramis was stupid enough to have lain with the Queen. Porthos obeyed Athos's unspoken command, if only so that he could see Mi'lady out when the time came. He didn't like the way she was simpering around his brother like that.

"Don't think Treveille will make it quite yet," D'Artagnan told him, one arm wrapped around Constance's waist as he grinned. The small ribbon tied about the pommel of his sword shook with his laughter as Constance nuzzled into his neck. "The King is still laying his accolades upon him." Porthos nodded and locked the door. They were, of course, in Treveille's office, waiting further orders.

"He deserves 'em," he replied, smiling a little at D'Artagnan's obvious happiness. "So," Porthos ventured, leaning against the door and letting his eyes travel between D'Artagnan and Constance. "Does this mean wedding?"

Constance and D'Artagnan exchanged a startled look, as if marriage had never occurred to them before. Porthos rolled his eyes. Ah. Young love. "You may want to hold that thought!" Mi'Lady De Winter called from across the room. Porthos looked up to see her pinching a slip of paper between two fingers, waving it pointedly. "Before I make my leave, I have one more correspondence to deliver," she told them.

Athos took the paper at once, turning it over in his hands. "It's been nearly two months since we saw him last," he murmured. Porthos sighed and eased himself into a seat.

"Feels like a century," he grunted.

"It might be awhile yet," De Winter told them, sashaying her way toward the door. "Things are becoming tense between our two great nations. And your friend is right in the thick of it… I'll be outside, Athos," and then she was gone, as quickly as she had come. Porthos's gut clenched. D'Artagnan and Constance wandered closer while Athos plopped into Treveille's seat heavily, staring at the paper in his hands.

Even from where he sat, Porthos could see the minute trembling. "Hey," he said. "Easy now. Just read it. Y'know she lies on instinct," Athos nodded quickly, and tore open the letter.

"Here it goes."

 _My brothers,_

 _I don't have much time. My suspicions were correct. I am being followed, and by more than one person. They are coming for me now, and I must flee. I don't know where or how, but I will make it back to Paris and establish contact there. I do not know if you are still in the Garrison, if Rochefort has gotten his dirty hands on you too, but I will find you, I swear it._

 _There isn't enough time for me to relate all that has happened since my last letter. So much has gone wrong, and too many pieces have fallen into place. It is my own foolishness that brought me to this moment, I know that now. I fear that I am part of a much larger plan, and I am ashamed to have blindly followed such orders to where we are now. I will explain when we meet again, and I pray you will be able to forgive my sins._

 _There is sound. I cannot hide forever. Please don't worry. I have survived worse circumstances than this, just focus on keeping each other safe until I can make sure of it myself. I cannot describe the fear I have for you, but my heart beats gladly knowing we will be together soon. Stay safe. Be on your guard. Take care of each other._

 _Remember me,_

 _Aramis._

Porthos's heart cracked. D'Artagnan's voice, if any consolation, reflected the shattered splinters of his own emotions when he spoke. "What if he doesn't make it here?" He asked, echoing all their thoughts.

Porthos was shaking so violently his chair started to clack against the floor. Athos had gone completely pale, staring at the letter as if new words might appear in the blank space Aramis had never left before. Porthos suddenly wanted to wrap him in a hug, never release him, but his own terrors refused to be so easily placated.

"Do… D'you suppose he'll find much kindness?" He asked. "Do you think anyone will help 'im get away, I mean? Anyone will stop if he's hurt? Lend 'im a horse or a hand? Do you think Aramis will be shown any… Any mercy at all?" D'Artagnan just shrugged, too despondent to speak.

Athos had no such scruples. When he voiced his opinion, it was in a voice rife with bitterness and thinly veiled rage. "You should know better than everyone in this room, Porthos," he growled. "He looks _Spanish._ In a part of the country where they are preparing for war with _Spaniards_. He will probably be shown only disdain and distrust. Hell, the locals will erect the gallows themselves if one of Rochefort's men calls Aramis a spy!" Athos stood, fists clenched at his side. Aramis's letter gently wafted to the floor, as lonely as an orphan child in the Court of Miracles.

"All this time, I doubt he was ever allowed a room to stay or good food to eat, carrying out his duties like a galley slave and resting with cutthroats at night!" D'Artagnan swooped to snatch the flimsy paper. Constance watched Athos pace the room, eyes wide and sorrowful.

"Living with the horrors of Savoy and separated from anyone who would come to his aid. Never knowing what the next day brings or even who watches him at night. And all because he slept with the Queen!"

 _What?_

Porthos's eyes widened, and he swiveled around to stare at D'Artagnan, who had the expression of someone who had just been rudely wakened with a tub of freezing water. Constance did not look surprised by the statement, only that Athos had said it aloud. "Keep your voice down!" She instantly shouted, surging to her feet.

"Wait, what?" Porthos cried. "Aramis slept with the…?" Athos stopped in his tracks, as if just now aware that he had been spewing his inner thoughts aloud. His shoulders heaved as he released an explosive sigh.

"I caught them. In the monastery. Last year. He swears he loves her," he admitted.

"Is he _insane?_ She's the Queen!" Porthos's heart dropped as he realized the implications. If Aramis had slept with the Queen last year, after several attempts by the King to impregnate her, then that meant…

"The Dauphin," D'Artagnan whispered, horrified.

"Is more than likely, Aramis's son. The future _King of France_ is the son of Aramis, the idiot!" Athos finished, flinging his hat to the ground.

Porthos scoffed, shaking his head _. Damn it, Aramis, what have you done?_ D'Artagnan turned to Constance. "You knew."

"I am the Queen's closest friend," Constance reminded them, sadly. "And confidante."

"And _you_ knew, and didn't tell us?" Porthos added as he turned back to Athos, who shook his head.

"I promised Aramis," he replied tightly. "And myself. Knowing this could cost us all our lives. The line in there, about forgiving him his sins, that was a veiled apology to me. I have shouted at him- _begged_ him- since that day to keep his distance from the Queen. For his own good. But you know Aramis. Once he's smitten," Athos made a dismissive swiping motion with his hand.

"Nothing else matters. Rochefort must have noticed. That's why he targeted Aramis first. These assignments have been leading to… To something. War, surely, but maybe an assassination? He must intend to kill Aramis while he's away," Porthos was out of his seat before Athos could finish his sentence. His blood felt like ice in his veins. D'Artagnan was frozen to the spot, utterly shocked by the news.

"It can't be," he whispered. "What about the Queen? She committed treason too! Why wouldn't Rochefort go after her?"

"The King loves the Dauphin," Constance piped in. "He sees him as his own son. Nothing will befall him, and while Anne is there, stability is kept between Paris and Madrid…"

"So he's planning on killing the Queen later. During the war."

"Aramis was just the beginning," D'Artagnan realized.

They were all doing a lot of talking, too much for Porthos's liking. "Well?" He hissed, snatching his sword from where he had set it down near the door, sheathing it with a violent hiss. "What are we waiting for? An invitation? Let's go." D'Artagnan's expression was of a man who felt as if his entire world had gone mad.

"Go where?" He demanded. Porthos stopped mid-step to gawp at him. Why was this so difficult?

"To _find Aramis!_ You heard Athos. He looks Spanish. 'Is letter said that he was being hunted by _several_ people. This is probably a trap leading to his death! We've gotta go!"

"And find him _how,_ Porthos?" Athos scoffed, swiveling on a heel to fix Porthos with a mocking glare. "He barely knows where he is half the time! Do you intend to search every Southern province until we find him, drowned in puddle somewhere near the border?" D'Artagnan flinched against the harshness of that vision.

Porthos stomped up to Athos, towering over the other man, trembling with ire. "What do you want, Athos?" he snarled. "We just sit here, wait to see if he stumbles in the door? Is that what you want? Or is that a secret too?"

Athos took a step back. "What are you…?"

"You should have known, you should have _known better than anyone_ , that any danger that stalks one of us always stalks us all! Dammit Athos, you should have told me earlier! I could have stopped him from ever stepping foot in the Louvre again. Maybe we could have discovered Rochefort's plans before they ever happened. I'm tired of all these secrets. You, Aramis, Treveille… When will you learn it does nothing?! Now, we've got a missing brother out there! We have to leave!"

D'Artagnan stood warily. "What about the Queen? The war?" He asked.

Porthos snorted. "To 'ell with it all! My loyalty is to my brother. I'm going to find him and bring him home…"

"To execution," Athos interrupted, sounding utterly disgusted. "Don't you remember that Rochefort accused Aramis of treason? Constance is free, but his guilt is still in question. Beautiful plan, Porthos! Search the entire southern region of France for one man! And then bring him back to the one city where he is most vulnerable. We don't even have a clue where to begin searching," he pointed out.

"Well, why don't we ask _Mi'lady De winter_?! She's found him these past two times!" Porthos snatched Aramis's letter from D'Artagnan's grip, waving the evidence of his continued life in Athos's face.

"She has a legion of contacts who have a legion of spies that have a nations worth of contacts, Porthos! She doesn't see him personally, and I highly doubt she even knows where her contacts contacts get these letters," Athos pointed out, swiping the letter from Porthos's grip. Porthos took another menacing step forward. Athos did not back away this time, holding his ground.

"You're very quick to defend her," Porthos observed, his voice dangerously low.

Athos bristled, eyes flashing. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you won't condemn that whore bitch for killing Thomas and planning the murder of dozens, but when Aramis sleeps with the wrong woman, you're willing to let him get eaten by the wolves! Don't you even _care_ about Aramis?" D'Artagnan ran forward, grabbing Athos's arm just as it soared through the air on its way to Porthos's face. He caught his wrist, quickly spinning him away seconds before he slapped Porthos.

Constance was up without word, placing herself in the middle as Porthos charged forward, eyes ablaze. "Stop it, both of you!" D'Artagnan commanded sharply.

"Athos! Porthos, no!" Constance yelled, waving her hands before Porthos's face wildly.

"Don't you _dare_!" Athos screamed, his face red and spittle flying from his mouth. "Don't you dare ever bring up my brother's name to me again!"

A vein in D'Artagnan's neck popped out as he struggled to keep Athos at bay. Porthos wanted to dare him to let go, to see which one of them would win this fight. "Stop it! Stop it, you two!"

"We _are_ your brothers!"

"You don't think I know? You _dare_ to accuse me of not caring?" Athos's voice cracked.

He wrenched himself free of D'Artagnan's grip, threw himself unto Porthos like a man gone mad. His knuckles went white as he clutched the front of Porthos's shirt in shaking fists, his eyes stormy with suppressed emotion.

"You don't think I also stay up all night, staring at the Garrison gates, Porthos?! That I don't hate myself day and night for not talking him out of his folly?! You don't think that every time I close my eyes, I see him lying in the street, alone, with his throat slit or his body beaten or a bullet in his heart!? You don't think I would beg like a dog at Rochefort's feet if I thought it would work? Give everything I have and have ever owned?! Then you're a bastard!" Athos tried to shove Porthos away, but succeeded only in propelling himself to his own knees, collapsing like a limp doll.

"If he dies," Athos panted, fingers balling on the floorboards, head bowed beneath a great weight of burden. D'Artagnan knelt beside him, hands hovering over his back and shoulders. "If he dies, I will never forgive myself. I would kill to have him back Porthos, don't you see? But we have a duty…"

Porthos shook his head. "To what?" He choked.

"His _son_ ," Athos insisted, as if it should have been obvious. "His son, you fool. He's still in that castle, a babe without protection. What will happen to him if his mother is banished and Rochefort puts a dagger between Louis's ribs one night? What life will he have, a pawn in Rochefort's hands? Another victim of the Court's games. What do you think Aramis would have us do?"

Porthos's lips shuddered. "No," he groaned, sounding even to his ears like a dying animal. He felt a dull pain as his knees hit the ground before Athos. Constance quickly following him down, her hands flying over his shoulders and upper arms. "No. You think Rochefort really knows?" Athos shook his head, jaw clenched so tightly Porthos could hear the grind of his teeth.

"He's punishing him. I can _feel_ it. God, Porthos," Athos covered his eyes with a palm, shaking his head in shame. "Forgive me. I've done this. If he _dies_ …" Athos exhaled a shuddering breath.

"Stop it," D'Artagnan hissed. "We aren't going to despair yet. Aramis wrote us a letter. He's still alive!" He jabbed a finger in the direction of the letter, but Porthos just shook his head.

"We have to _go get_ him," he choked out. He looked up, his anger draining as quickly as it had come. As it left him, his body shuddered with the sudden cold dread seeping into his veins. "One of us, at least. Athos, forget everythin else. We're not losin' one of our own today, or any day." As he watched, Athos's shoulders sagged once, before rising again. When he met Porthos's eyes, they were filled with the same steel he felt in his heart. They clasped hands, instantly.

"I presume you want to go?" Athos asked, his voice hoarse from fear, but strong. D'Artagnan and Constance hauled the two to their feet, smiling.

"I'll leave D'Artagnan with you, take some Musketeers with me," he agreed.

Athos nodded once. "Very well."

Suddenly, the door to Treveille's office opened, and the man himself stood in the doorway. Porthos turned, blinked a few times in surprise when he noted the golden sash wrapped around his captain's chest. "I see someone's back in the King's good graces," he assumed, relieved.

Treveille did not react to the unspoken congratulations. He was scowling, eyes sad. "Yes," he agreed softly. "But there's another problem."

"What now?" Constance asked.

"Rochefort deserted. The King has promoted me to Minister of War," Treveille reported, crisply. Lady de Winter stepped up behind him, finishing the sentence, her eyes locked on Athos's form as if she suspected never to lay eyes on him again.

"All Musketeers are to be sent to fight Spain for the glory of His Majesty," she told them. "Effective immediately."

* * *

The first thing Aramis registered when he woke up was the numbness in his arms. It started at his wrists and spread to his shoulders. It was not so much painful as uncomfortable, and Aramis couldn't help but groan regardless.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, and he gasped as a sudden shine of light made its way into his eyes. Aramis jerked backward, snapping his eyes closed again, and hissed as his head hit something solid behind him. He rolled unto his side as a few pieces of wood slammed into his body from behind. Apparently, he had disturbed a stack of some poor vagabond's firewood.

That's when he heard him.

"Well," a voice he had not heard for months, and yet recalled vividly said. "It seems you're awake," Aramis's heart skipped a beat. He opened his eyes slowly this time, letting them become accustomed to the sudden influx of light. Moonlight, if the color of it was to be believed.

Aramis groaned, looking up. He recognized Rochefort immediately. He was sitting directly in front of him, on a rotting wine barrel. He looked haggard, sleepless eyes bloodshot and hair unkempt. There were stains all over his white shirt. Behind him, two men stood at attention. Red Guards.

Aramis scoffed, glanced around. He was in an abandoned barn, by the looks of it. He glanced at the two planks of wood behind him. So that's what hit him. A slit in the crumbling ceiling allowed the moonlight to stream in. Aramis didn't welcome it. "What are you doing here?" Aramis demanded, as he sat up. His wrists were tied behind him, which was probably the reason for his bloodless arms. He leaned against the wall behind him, breathing harshly through the sudden vertigo.

Rochefort smiled, bitterly. "I'm here to give you your last assignment," he replied, reaching into his coat's pocket to bring out a slip of worn paper. Aramis groaned.

"I don't think so," he replied, staring at the ceiling's many holes. He could see the twinkle of stars from where he sat. The last thing he remembered was fleeing the city of Bayonne, ducking into alleys and into the basements of slums. He had been running for -it felt like centuries now- a week at most. "Your missions are disgusting and wrong. I'd rather be Court Marshaled than perform another," Rochefort cocked his head, as if amused.

"You didn't like playing assassin Aramis?" He asked sweetly. Aramis's stomach roiled at the term. That was, indeed, what he had become. A murderer who killed from afar, people whose lives he knew nothing about and who never saw him coming until it was too late.

"I'm a soldier," he answered. "Not a murderer or your personal spy. What you had me- had all of us do," he added, glancing at the two Red Guards. One had his arm in a sling, while the other sported a long, half-healed scar across his left eye. He would probably never see again. Aramis recognized the battle wounds, had seen other Musketeers and Red Guards with the same. He knew the fate of spies and assassins like himself. "Was immoral. Besides, I presume the men following me were yours also?" Rochefort chuckled, giving a lazy half shrug.

"Not entirely," he replied. "Some of them were mercenaries from the Spanish crown," Aramis arched his brows.

"Lovely," he griped. "So the Spanish crown has a bounty on my head. I take it I'm not the only one?"

"Most of the others are dead," one of the men behind Rochefort grunted. "Musketeers and Red Guards. Either they became compromised or the Spanish got to 'em," Aramis peered at the scarred one intently, noting the barely concealed rage in his one good eye.

"I see," he replied slowly. His heart ached for his fellow Musketeers, who had died following the orders of a madman. He was determined not to be the next. "And you're alright with this? With effectively aiding Rochefort in starting a war with Spain?" He asked, aiming the question at the Guards behind Rochefort. They shrugged.

"You're a clever one. Put the pieces together, did you?" Rochefort cackled, eyes growing with delight. Aramis watched him with disgust.

"Of course. Most of the people you had me kill or interrogate were Spanish citizens, generals, nobles or statesmen. Or their families, which is my greatest regret. They were all innocents, more than likely," his stomach rebelled at the horrible realization he had come too. He had never been attacking criminals or spies, just Spanish citizens or diplomats living within the border of France.

"I got the idea from Emilie, if you must know," Rochefort shrugged.

"You're mad."

"I'm inspired," Rochefort leaned down, lightly smacked Aramis's cheek with the papers in his hands. "And your work isn't done yet. I have one more assignment for you to complete. It's multi-layered. Very complicated. I'm sure you'll be able to complete it," Aramis had never been more disappointed to be called intelligent.

He shook his head. "I'm going home, Rochefort," he sighed wearily. "I'm tired. I'm being pursued, and if your disheveled state is any indication, you are no longer the First Minister of France," he nudged Rochefort's dirt encrusted boot with his own, mockingly. "Am I right?"

Rochefort growled low in his throat. The slap against Aramis's cheek stung, but he smiled and spat the dribble of blood at Rochefort in reply. Then he laughed, wholeheartedly, for the first time in two months. "They'll come for you, you know," he chuckled. "The Musketeers. They'll hunt you down like the rat you are, and then you'll see _real_ justice dished out," Rochefort kicked him, and the pain was worth the flash of fear Aramis saw in his eyes.

"Your pathetic Musketeers will be too busy fighting to bother about me!" Rochefort hissed. "Or have you not figured that part out yet? Spain declared war _yesterday._ Treveille has taken my place, and the entire Musketeer regiment was deployed to the front lines," Aramis's world narrowed into the spine-chilling terror of those words.

 _The frontlines._

They were at war. His brothers were on the battlefield of _war_ without him. Aramis saw red. "You bastard!" he growled, lunging forward. Rochefort caught his hair in a tight fist, yanking him back. "What have you done?"

"I've given myself a chance to _escape_ ," Rochefort declared, as if bored. His hands were still fisted in Aramis's hair, and he brought him closer so that Aramis could smell his rank breath. "And if you really want to help your beloved brothers, you'll follow these instructions," Aramis could not help but shudder when Rochefort stuffed the paper deep into the folds of his shirt, his pale hands cold against bare skin.

Aramis's head spun as he was thrown against the wall once more. "What are they?" He slurred when his vision had ceased to blur at the edges.

"Instructions to murder the first minister of Spain. A man named _Alvaro_. The Spanish King is as incompetent in battle strategy as our own. Without Alvaro this war will end quickly."

"If I'm caught, I'll be executed. More than that, I could make things _worse_."

"So, don't get caught," Aramis barked a laugh that rang with bitterness. The acidity of it left him momentarily breathless. He was _so tired_ of this game, of being pulled and pushed about like a dog on a leash. He was _a man,_ not a pack animal. Besides, he missed the warmth of his bed, the bright affection in Anne's smile. He missed Porthos's deep belly laugh and the crookedness of Athos's rare grins and the curious tick of D'Artagnan's head when he was deep in thought.

He missed them more with each passing day, so much so that it made his heart throb in his chest.

"Ah, how helpful you are Rochefort! The Spanish already want me dead because of you. What makes you think I'm going to follow your orders to my grave? Why shouldn't I just return to Paris and serve France as I always have?" He demanded. The guards behind Rochefort exchanged an alarmed glance, as if surprised Aramis would ask. Rochefort's face, on the other hand, fairly glowed with triumphant glee.

"You _haven't_ heard?" He practically squealed. "Oh, how delightful! The King _knows,"_ Aramis scowled, confused.

"Knows what?" He asked.

"A certain Madame Bonacieux was arrested a few days ago, alongside the Queen and Her lady in waiting," Aramis's blood froze. _Anne_. "Her lady in waiting testified that you and the Queen had a secret dalliance. Marguerite, was it?" Aramis paled. "Now, Madame Bonacieux was rescued, and I renounced before the trial could come to a head, but the second the King saw the Queen's guilty face, he _knew about your treason_ ," Rochefort slapped his knees uproariously, throwing his head back to laugh. "You set foot in Paris and he'll probably demand your head upon entry!" He guffawed.

Aramis paled at the news. "There's no proof…" He knew Constance would rather have died than betray him and Anne. Rochefort hooted with amusement.

"The Dauphin doesn't look anything like Louis, does he?"

Aramis's heart stuttered in his chest. _My Lord, what have I done?_ "You're completely insane…!"

"Inspired, my friend. _Inspired._ Furthermore," Rochefort corrected when he had gained control of his giggling. He leaned back, swiping tears from his eyes. "I still have a few… Er, acquaintances left from my prison years in Spain. They'd be more than happy to profit from… What's your friend's name? The big one with negro blood in his veins? Porthos?"

Aramis's stared at Rochefort, his face expressionless. In his chest, his heart was thundering wildly, terror and desperation making his forehead shiny with sweat. "The Spanish _do_ have a need for more labor in the colonies. Prisoners of war count, and so long as his skin is dark, they can sell him. It'd take some time to break him, maybe, but a few hundred strokes of the lash should do it. He'd be as compliant as every other slave in Panama," the snarl that leapt from his throat sounded inhuman to his own ears.

"You son of a bitch!" He snapped. "You stay away from him!"

"Or Athos. Tsk, tsk, a drinking problem that one has! He may just wake up in his tent one day, an empty bottle shoved down his throat because he drunk himself to death! That's how your Musketeer friend Jean Paul died, you know. The Spanish assassins have an interesting style of killing these days. They can make _anything_ look like a tragic accident," Aramis turned away to hide the sudden prickling in his eyes. He couldn't even imagine…

"They're harder to kill than you think!" he barked, hating how his voice cracked.

"And dear D'Artagnan! So loyal and brave. All it would take is a minute. A moment on the battlefield. So much as aim a sword or pistol at Athos or Porthos and he'll throw himself right into the bullet's way. Damn, wouldn't it be heroic! But then there's _The Dauphin_ ," Aramis's breath hitched in his chest. He bowed his head, shaking it slowly if only to stop hearing Rochefort's words. It couldn't happen, he wouldn't let it.

It wasn't real. Rochefort leaned down until his mouth was next to Aramis's ear. "Did you know that children are especially liable to die from disease and sickness? Squeeze a bit of juice from putrid rat meat into the mush on his breakfast plate, and well, _au revoi_ r our little Prince!" _Please not my son._

"Stop!" Aramis gasped. Tears were leaking from his eyes, the images his mind had conjured from Rochefort's descriptions too horrendous for him to handle. Shame flooded him when Rochefort snatched his ear, yanking his face up to the moonlight again. He grinned when he noticed Aramis's sorrow. "Stop." Aramis repeated. "What do you want from me?"

"A souvenir," Rochefort retorted sharply. "I'm sending a… Decoy to Paris. A 'lead,' for Treveille to follow. I doubt he'd stop searching for you unless he had absolute proof of your demise. He stops looking for you, he stops looking for me. We're going to give him that proof," Aramis had to close his eyes as another wave of nausea swept over him, making his stomach lurch. He had known before that Rochefort was desperate, insane, greedy… But this. He would never have conceived of this.

"You're going to make them think I'm dead," he whispered. Porthos would never forgive him.

"Exactly, and for their own good, I hope you never tell them otherwise! It's better this way, Aramis. Imagine their daily agony thinking you still lost in the Southern cities of France! At least your death can free them to move on. Become war heroes. Continue saving France and living by the Musketeer oath. Isn't that what you want for them?"

God, yes. He wanted that more than anything, but… "Why me?" he suddenly blurted, knowing that he had been caught. As much as he missed them- and loathed this mission- he knew he could be of no help to his friends anymore. It was his night with the Queen that had led to so much suffering. He couldn't place anyone else at risk again.

All he could do was try to end the war as quickly as possible.

"Why go to all these lengths just to make sure I carry out your dirty work for you? There were plenty of others who could take my place." And may he be forgiven for wishing Rochefort had done just that.

Rochefort reached out, grabbed the front of his shirt without warning. Then his spittle was flying into Aramis's eyes as he screamed. "Because the Queen was supposed to love _me_!"

 _Well, this explains much_. "You?!"

Rochefort's crystal eyes were wide and deranged in the moonlight. "I was her friend, her confidante, her trusted advisor!"

Now it was Aramis's turn to laugh. "You're below her!" He cackled, then gasped as Rochefort shook him violently.

"I LOVED her!" He yelled, hands rushing up to his throat. Aramis choked and struggled to get away as rough fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing. Dots swam before his eyes.

"Sir! Sir, we still need him alive!" A voice from far away was saying, beyond the haze of his breathless thrashing.

The pressure around his throat suddenly eased, and he was once more shoved to the ground. Aramis gulped in air for a few moments, blinking back tears of adrenaline. His temple throbbed. "She… _Never_ … Could love scum… Like you, Rochefort," he croaked at last.

"So it seems," Rochefort whispered solemnly. "But after today, she can't love either of us. It's your choice Aramis. Sacrifice your loved ones or sacrifice yourself," he leaned forward wearily. "Take your pick." Aramis stared up at Rochefort for a long time, heart thudding a steady rhythm against his ribs.

 _Home. Home. Home. Home._

He could never go home, not unless he wanted to put his brothers in the crossfires of the assassins following him or unless he wanted the Queen and… And his son to be banished or worse from Court. The Musketeer named Aramis, as he had been a scant two months before, had to die. He was someone else now, as penance for all he had done and everyone he had hurt or endangered.

He lowered his eyes. "My sash," he murmured.

"What about it?" Rochefort asked.

"Take it as your proof. Treveille will recognize it instantly," it had been a last gift from his mother before he was taken away at the age of twelve. Porthos would know it. He could still feel her soft lips pressed against his temple, hear the shudder of sobs in her chest as she leaned over him.

 _"Se Valiente, mi amor. Ve con Dios,"_ _Be brave, my love. Go with God._

She would have been ashamed at what he had become. Rochefort leaned over him, and Aramis did not move as he viciously tugged the valuable cloth from around his waist. "Good," Rochefort said when it was finished, wrapping his mother's shawl around his fist. "But this won't be enough to convince him by itself. I'll need something more." Aramis stared, his heart hollowed.

"Like what?"

Rochefort's grin of malice stayed with him for a long time.


	6. Chapter 6

"Once we get to Rennes, we'll rendevous with General Renard's forces," Athos told the group, sticking the tip of his dagger into the wooden board of their map. It landed on a star to the southeast. Their first destination.

"Then onto defending our ports at La Rochelle?" Porthos asked, his voice hoarse with tiredness. The already prominent bags of sleeplessness under his eyes had deepened into rimmed caverns. Occasionally, he would sway on his feet until D'Artagnan nudged him upright again, though the boy was sagging himself.

"Exactly. We'll hold that city; and move unto the next once we've pushed the Spanish back," there was no question about whether they would push the Spanish back. The ten other Musketeers around the table grunted ascent.

"Think we'll find any of them while fighting this war?" Eustace asked, softly. Athos looked up, frowning in sympathy. The others did also, a bit of hope glistening in scared and weary eyes. The missing Musketeers had not vanished from anyone's mind, especially not Athos's. But Eustace had been a good friend of Jean-Paul's, and the man had been gone for a month now.

Each of _The Inseperables_ carried one of Aramis's letters in their jackets, close to their hearts. Athos felt his crumple against his chest as he shuffled in place. "There's always hope," he muttered. Usually, he would not encourage false confidence or optimism in his troops. That had never been his way with those under his command. Athos was a realist, and not very inclined to religion either. Nevertheless, he had found himself on his knees more than once in the past week.

Praying for strength, for forgiveness, for his brother's safety on the frontlines, for Aramis to return soon. He had never prayed so hard or with so much fervor, seeking a release in something other than the bottle. Suddenly, there was a knock on Treveille's- his- office door. Athos turned his eyes back to the map. "Enter!" He called, knowing that it could be an assassin but hardly daring to care.

He was surrounded by twelve highly trained men. He did not fear for his own life. Treveille stuck his head into the door, and despite the wrinkles of pure exhaustion creasing his forehead and cheeks, he grinned when he saw them. "Captain!" D'Artagnan cried happily. None of them had seen Treveille since he honored Athos as Captain of the Garrison, scrambling to the Louvre to begin his own duties as Minister of War.

"It's good to see all of you," Treveille told them warmly as he was surrounded by his loyal soldiers, patting him on the back and asking after his health. Athos watched the reunion, smiling, his eyes sweeping their old friend.

 _Does he have a purse?_ He wondered in sudden shock as he noticed the small handbag hanging from Treveille's right shoulder. "I'm here to steal Athos for a moment. Can you spare him?" Athos's eyes swiveled to Porthos and D'Artagnan instinctively asking their opinion. The two had become invaluable to him over the past week, their presence a stalwart buoy of courage at his back. He predicted he would need them even more in the coming days.

"Go on," Porthos told him, waving a dismissive hand. "We'll finish up here." D'Artagnan nodded.

"Very well," Athos arched his brows at Treveille curiously as the other man motioned for him to follow. Athos obeyed, his curiosity mounting as Treveille led them to the armory downstairs. His eyes skimmed over the muskets lining the wall, polished and loaded. There were more muskets than Musketeers, but that was to be expected. Their footsteps sounded like raindrops in an empty cavern.

"What is it?" He asked.

Treveille leaned against a wall behind him, sighing. "Athos… Today a very special prisoner was brought into the Chatalet," Athos crossed his arms, waited patiently for the rest. "It was Rochefort."

Athos unwound his arms slowly, one hand instinctively clutching at his sword. _Aramis._ "What? He's been missing since…!"

"I know."

"Have you seen him yet?" Treveille shook his head, then reached into the bag at his hip.

"I haven't. But the men who brought him in said that he had in his possession a few… Items he meant to pass off to someone else. I didn't want Porthos and D'Artagnan to know quite yet," Athos bristled defensively. Rochefort's capture was _exactly_ the kind of information his brothers should know.

"What?"

Treveille pulled a long, silky sash from the bag. Athos watched it unfurl confusedly, a waving banner of royal blue cloth. Why would Rochefort have a…? "No," he snatched the material, noted its creasing and color. The sickly stench of blood that speckled and soaked in various places. He knew this sash. He had seen it and teased for it and even held it before. "This… Treveille, this belongs to…" He couldn't finish.

Treveille nodded. "Aramis."

Athos's hands clenched around the fabric. He exhaled a furious breath. "What was _he_ doing with it?"

"That's what I was going to find out. I don't suppose you'd like to come?" Athos gave his commanding officer a dry look. What in the world would possess Treveille to believe otherwise?

"Porthos and D'Artagnan should be there," Treveille hesitated, looking as if he were on the cusp of snapping an answer but thought better of it. Athos glared at him.

"I swore to them no more secrets," he growled, recalling the epic fight he and Porthos had had before about their propensity for privacy. Treveille sighed.

"Do you really want _Porthos_ in the room when we interrogate Rochefort? You think he'll live?" That was a decent point. Athos's jaw clenched once, and he glanced at the stairs leading to his office, feeling a spurt of guilt. The note against his breast bone -Aramis' third note- burned.

 _Remember me._

He had no choice, and no time to spare. "Let's go."

Athos wasn't sure what he expected to feel when he saw Rochefort again. Satisfaction, perhaps? Rage? Disgust?

Instead, a bone deep unsettlement came over him when he beheld the man crouched in a corner beside his cot. To his left, a bucket was his only toilet and a plate of moldy food had been set far to the right. Rochefort crouched in the corner, his own expensive clothes now hanging on his frame like rags. His blonde hair framed his face, stringy with sweat and dirt. He looked like a sewer rat.

Athos couldn't care less. He stroked the sash he had tied around his waist, longingly. _I'm coming, Aramis._

"Well, well," Rochefort hummed when he looked up to see Athos and Treveille in the doorway. "How are you, gentleman?"

Athos did not bother with formalities. "Where are they, Rochefort?"

Rochefort grinned, exposing a row of grime encrusted teeth. "Who?" He sing-songed.

"You know who!" Treveille barked, taking a threatening step forward. Rochefort only chuckled, loosening his limbs so he could lean casually against the wall. "The fifteen Musketeers you sent on secret mission to the South!"

Rochefort screwed his lips into a thoughtful line. "I don't seem to recall," he declared after a moment. "Perhaps if I could properly sit, or had suitable sustenance," he waved vaguely toward his plate. "That would stir my memory a little…Agh!"

"Athos!" He didn't remember moving, or even thinking to move. Treveille's sharp rebuke snapped him back to awareness, where he realized he had crossed the room in three long strides and taken Rochefort by the collar, shoving him painfully against the wall. Rochefort's eyes were wide as he scrabbled at his throat, and Athos felt a disturbing sense of satisfaction for causing it.

 _And now you know_ _ **real**_ _fear, you miserable swine_. "Answer me!" Athos growled between gritted teeth. "Or I will personally slit your throat _here and now._ Where are they?"

"He can't speak if you're choking him, Athos!" Treveille cried, shaking his shoulder from behind. Athos snarled and took a step back, allowing Rochefort to land on his feet, rubbing his throat and gasping for breath.

"Well," he gasped, when he had regained enough air. "So rude, Athos! So rude. You could have just asked, you know," Athos snorted.

"Don't test me, Rochefort," he warned, calmly. "It would be my utmost pleasure to kill you right here." He may as well do it anyway, just to see the man squirm. Treveille halted him with a grunt.

"Enough games, Rochefort! Tell us what we want to know, and we'll be lenient with your sentencing," Rochefort seemed to consider these terms for a moment, eyes burrowing into Athos's as if searching for something familiar. Athos held his gaze, hoping that Rochefort could feel the fury pouring out of him, the utmost desire for vengeance. The only reason he was still alive was because of Aramis.

"You have the evidence right there," Rochefort replied, nodding at the sash around Athos's waist. "What else do you need?"

His heart skipped a beat as Rochefort's meaning sunk in. Athos blinked, mind spinning with the insinuation. "What are you talking about?" He demanded.

Rochefort smiled. "Oh, Athos… Let me be the first to offer you condolences," Rochefort's eyes twinkled. "On the death of your brother Aramis."

No. Athos clutched his heart as it stuttered to a screaming halt in his chest. He stumbled backward as if Rochefort had struck him, and felt Treveille's hands on his shoulders, keeping him upright. "W-what?" Athos choked. "No. No, you're lying," _I would have felt it. We all would have felt it._

"It was quicker than some of the others," Rochefort went on. "I had them murdered in worse ways. A drowning here, a brutal stabbing there. But Aramis, oh he was hard to get! I think he always knew what was coming. Long before the others. That's the reason I kept that ratty thing. It was a souvenir," Rochefort set his hands on his hips, staring into the distant wall nostalgically. "A trophy. On a hunt gone well."

"No!" Athos burst out, wild in his worry. "No, stop lying! He's alive! I know it! He wrote to us not two weeks ago! Look!" Athos tore the letter from his shirxt front, stuffed its contents into Rochefort's face desperately. "Look! He was on his way to _Paris_! He was alive!"

Rochefort's eyes widened infinitesimally. "You managed to contact him! I must admit I'm impressed. And surprised. He _was_ headed for Paris, now that I think about it," the man tapped his chin thoughtfully, lips pursed. "Hm."

"You had your own Red Guards killed? And the Musketeers?" Treveille interrupted, and Athos wanted to strangle him too. What about Aramis? "Why?"

"Because they became useless to me once war was assured!" Rochefort snorted. "Or did you not know that's what they were doing? Yes, yes!" He cackled when Treveille's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Your brave and honorable Musketeers performed the work of butchers and assassins very well, Treveille. Their activities made the Spanish King _furious_ , ha ha! I applaud you for picking them so well. In the end, though," Rochefort shrugged. "I couldn't countenance witnesses."

Treveille looked as if might vomit any minute now. "Aramis's letters," he realized. "He described disgusting crimes… You had them become _monsters,_ murderers furthering your own mad delusions of power!"

"Yes!" Rochefort agreed, as if pleased they understood so well. "And your friend Aramis was one of the best. His skill with a rifle was most helpful…"

"WHERE IS HE?!" Athos screamed, drawing his sword and pressed the edge of it against Rochefort's throat. He shoved the filthy animal against the wall until he was trapped in the corner, his throat working madly beneath Athos's blade. "Damn it, Rochefort, shut up! Tell me what you've done with him!"

"He's dead!" Rochefort spat. "Gone. Deceased. A bullet in his skull. A tavern owner got him. If it's any consolation, he didn't suffer long. He managed to escape my men for a while, but… Aramis was dying from his wounds anyway. It was probably mercy to shoot him in the head, Athos."

Athos shook his head, his breaths coming out in harsh wheezes. _No. No, please. I can't…_ He closed his eyes against the wave of despair that crashed over him. His mind suddenly flashed with an image of Aramis lying on a cold, hard floor in some tavern basement. Riddled with bullet wounds and cleaved by sword strikes, blood clogging his unmoving throat while his eyes stared into the dark of his almost freedom. Athos suddenly very much wanted to throw up or scream.

"Don't fret. His last thoughts were of you, I'm sure," Rochefort cooed.

 _Know that I am always thinking of you…_

"His body," Athos muttered. "Where is it?" _He wouldn't believe it until he saw…._

"Are you joking? I had it burned, like the others. I can't have dead bodies lying about, it causes plague! I'm vengeful, not stupid. Besides, do you really think Aramis would just let me walk off with that sash?" Rochefort inquired, staring into Athos's eyes with surety. "Not unless I pried it off his cold, dead…"

"AGH!"

"Athos!" Treveille shouted, lunging forward to grab Athos by the arms as he pressed down on Rochefort, making the other man cry out as a rib snapped beneath Athos's hard shove. Athos wriggled in Treveille's grip as he screamed obscenities, his entire body aflame with rage. He felt translucent with it, bodiless, an endless spirit of fury…

"You bastard! I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you!" Rochefort collapsed against the wall, holding his chest and choking.

"He wasn't the man you knew!" He yelled. "By the time I got done with him, he was a ghost! A shadow, a sin-riddled psychopath! I did you a favor!"

"You murdered my brother!" Athos yelled, striking out with his feet, his head, whatever he could wrangle free from Treveille's grasp. "Let me go! He killed him! He killed _Aramis_!" The last word was a strangled sob in his chest.

"Athos!" Treveille shouted in his ear, cruelly twisting his arms behind his back, tugging him backward. He finally succeeded in dragging Athos out of the door and down the hallway. Guards rushed past them, slamming Rochefort back into his cage.

His voice echoed down the corridor. "I did you a favor! I did the entire kingdom a favor! He was a MONSTER!"

Athos yanked himself free of the strangling hold. "No, damn you!" he shouted, latching unto the opposite wall as if it were a lifeline. "Damn him, damn him, _damn him!_ This can't be happening. It can't," he sunk slowly against the wall, fingers twisting into the bloody fabric of Aramis's sash.

Treveille stood above him, panting. His eyes were dull, far away. "I'm so sorry, Athos," he breathed. "So very sorry," Athos curled into a tight ball, lying his head on his knees.

"Aramis," he moaned. "Oh God… How will I tell Porthos and D'Artagnan? I don't know how I can even…"

Treveille reached down, patted his hair gently. "Would you like me to do it?" Athos snorted into his arms. Hot tears flooded down his face, more than he had thought he had left. He had wept so often in his life, why did he still have the ability now? Shouldn't he be immune, beyond the effects of sorrow and desolation?

Shouldn't his heart be beyond breaking?

He raised his head, sniffling. "I should have listened to Porthos," he gasped. "We should have gone to get him weeks ago, duty be damned! I should have told them about Aramis and the Queen before. I should have…"

"This isn't your fault."

Athos shook his head, sobs building in his chest. "He's gone. He's gone because of _me_ ," just like Thomas. Just like Anne and his estate and everyone he had ever loved. He and Aramis had been alike in that regard. They destroyed every good thing in their lives.

Except Aramis had begotten so many good things too. He had helped people, he had saved Athos from the bottle and his own ghosts of despair and guilt. Yet Athos hadn't even been able to save him from the bullet or Rochefort.

"He's gone because of Rochefort! Athos, you can't…"

He had to tell Porthos. If anyone would understand his grief, his guilt, it was… But how would he tell him? How could he even utter the sentence? Athos stood on trembling legs, took a few staggering steps toward the stairs. "Athos? Where are you going?! Athos!"

But he was already gone.

* * *

He didn't know how long he ran in the streets. He did know that tears streaked endlessly down his face, and at some point, he snatched the cloth from around his waist, holding it like a lifeless corpse in his hands. He knew that he had to lean against several buildings and stores as he vomited, the mental image of Aramis lying on the dirty floor too much for his stomach to handle.

He knew he rehearsed telling them aloud as he stumbled through the streets.

"Porthos," he moaned repeatedly. "Porthos… D'Artagnan…"

 _I'm so sorry._

 _This is all my fault._

 _I can never forgive myself._

 _He's gone._

 _He's not coming home._

 _I'm so sorry._

His hands trembled around the doorknob of his office. After several minutes of trying, he just slammed his palms against the wood. "Porthos! D'Artagnan!" He screeched, like a wounded animal. The door opened at once. Porthos was on the other side, D'Artagnan stood behind him. They were alone.

Athos held up the scarf, and collapsed to his knees before them, a supplicant offering his heart. "I'm sorry," he rasped. "Aramis is… He's…. He's not coming," he raised one hand to block out the sight of their horror, wept harder than he had since Thomas had died. "A tavern owner shot him in the head. Rochefort… He _murdered_ him… Aramis is gone. He's never coming home," he felt the cloth cascade through his fingers as it left his grip.

"No," Porthos whispered.

D'Artagnan dropped like a stone, leaning against the doorframe. One hand snuck to Athos's shoulder. He looked up to see their youngest brother sobbing by his side, the other hand fisted in the shirt above his heart. His was still capable of being broken too, it seemed. Only Porthos remained standing, as the oldest of Aramis's friends.

Athos looked up, and the dismay on Porthos's face rang cries from him anew. "I'm sorry," he choked again. "I'm so sorry."

"'Mis," Porthos whimpered. "Aramis… No. No, he can't be… It's a lie! A trick!" Athos shook his head.

"Rochefort killed them all. He tricked them into doing his dirty work and then slaughtered them like animals! I'll kill him, Porthos! He killed our brother!" Porthos's lips trembled. And a single tear ran down his cheek before his jaw clenched.

The rest flowed down his face, silently. He slowly lowered himself to his knees, holding Aramis's cloth in his hands, eyes scanning the blood stains and splotches for a long moment. Athos reached out, pressed a hand to his face.

"Forgive me," he begged. "It's my fault…" But Porthos just shook his head.

"There will be no forgiveness," he mumbled, voice dark and cold. "Not until Rochefort is dead. Not until I avenge him. My best friend… Aramis… Aramis…" Then his shoulders bowed before the inevitable, and he crushed Athos to his chest, sobbing violently into his neck. Athos clung to him, shivering, and they both reached out and grabbed D'Artagnan.

All of them wept for the one missing.

And as one, they wept for them all.


	7. Chapter 7

_Five years Later:_

"D'Artagnan, if you don't stop your wrigglin, I'm gonna take a chunk outta your shoulder," Porthos growled past the four needles sticking out of his mouth. D'Artagnan sat beside him, so close that Porthos could feel the heat of his body. He was attempting to stitch a long cut on D'Artganan's left shoulder, but the boy wouldn't stop his blasted moving about!

"That's _not_ what you're doing?" D'Artagnan bit out between gritted teeth.

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Ah, you've had worse stuff than this! Why're ya cryin now?" He demanded.

"It hurts, Porthos!"

"You need a nap, methinks."

" _Gentlemen,"_ Athos's quiet voice called from a few feet away, where he knelt on the hard cobblestone, trying to coax the embers of their small flame back to life. "D'Artagnan, let the man do his job. Porthos, hold him down if necessary. We can't stay here forever," he pointed out.

Porthos glanced up at the abandoned halls of the cathedral. High walls towered above them, daunting. On the ceiling, cracked chips of a destroyed mural dripped down every few minutes, tears of the Angels.

It was a common sight these days. "When's Treveille want us back?" D'Artagnan asked, purposefully looking away as Porthos tied another stitch into the cut, slowly pulling it taut.

"Three days from now, mid-day. As soon as we finish checking the local countryside for any remaining Spanish, we'll return home," Porthos smiled grimly as D'Artagnan nodded, playing with the golden ring about one finger. It had cost Athos a small fortune to get it, but the engagement present was rarely not on D'Artagnan's person, so the cost had been worth it.

"Think the others are doin good?" Porthos grunted. Athos had spread the rest of their forces out over the distances. It made searching for any remaining enemies a quicker job, if not more dangerous. They had discussed the decision at length, or rather, Porthos and Athos had _argued_ the decision at length until D'Artagnan stepped in to separate them.

It seemed he did that less and less since the war had begun. Maybe because Porthos and Athos rarely spoke anymore.

As soon as Alvaro had died, the Spanish King had wasted no time in declaring a cease fire. Negotiations, hopefully, would begin soon. "They'd better be. We're on a clock," Athos replied, distantly blowing on the wood. A few crackles later, and a warm fire sprang from the ashes of the old. Porthos sighed. He had been shivering for what felt like days now.

"Ah," he breathed, pulling the last stitch and cutting it. "There we 'ave it. All patched up," he patted D'Artagnan on the shoulder, smiling. Their youngest brother made a scene of grumbling as he gingerly pulled his sleeves down over the wound.

"Still think you took a chunk of my arm out," he snipped.

"Not all of us are gifted in needlework," Porthos reminded him, his heart panging as soon as the words came from his mouth. Athos's face had fallen as well, the desolation in his deep eyes brimming to the surface.

"I think you did pretty well," said D'Artagnan, who recovered quickest these days from loss and deprivation. It could have been his young age, or maybe just because he was eager to return to Constance, but something had changed in the lad. A portion of his emotions locked away from their view.

It scared Porthos more than it did Athos. He thought D'Artagnan's transformation was healthy for a soldier in battle. Porthos thought that emotions made a man human. They argued over that too, D'Artagnan being the tenuous chord keeping them together.

Athos waved them over to the fire, sitting against the broken remains of a pew. The blue cloth around his waist fluttered as a gust of wind moaned through the church. Porthos shivered and inched closer to the warmth, leaning leisurely against his handbag. Outside, he could hear the rhythmic chomp of the horses as they grazed in a nearby field. "Beautiful night," he grunted, glancing at the stars past the cracked ceiling of the Holy place. Douai had been ransacked long ago.

"Warm," Athos agreed. "Hand me the food, D'Artagnan," D'Artagnan snatched the bag from beneath Porthos's head, grinning at him when he swatted him for the action. He handed the bag to Athos, who began rummaging through its contents, a small smile playing about his cheeks. He did that more often these days. Whereas war had hardened D'Artagnan it seemed to have stripped Athos of his normal emotional buttresses.

Porthos accepted the apple Athos threw his way, taking a bite out of it and resettling on his back. One hand crept to the note tucked near his heart. They did not need to speak so much anymore. Silence was sometimes more helpful than silence, more telling. Besides, they had been engaged in battle not even a week earlier. Exhaustion was a guest that never truly left its host.

D'Artagnan settled back with a long sigh. He snatched the cloth from beneath his shirt, using it to dab at the few trickles of blood running down his arm. Once, even the mere idea of using that token as a bandage would have horrified them all. However, war took no heed of the sacred.

All of them had used their respective reminders as bandages at some point, scrubbing them clean as soon as possible. Nevertheless, Porthos's blood had mingled with Aramis's in the blue fabric, and he prayed his friend might forgive him.

Long ago, Athos had suggested they cut Aramis's sash into three parts, so that each of them might have a strand. Porthos had protested the idea feverishly for months. After all, he recalled the story of the sash. A last gift from Aramis's beloved mother… How could they destroy it? As time went on, though, it had been he to cut it. He couldn't stand the idea that only one of them should have complete control over the last object they had of their friend.

"Porthos," D'Artagnan said, breaking the comfortable silence. "What are you going to do when we get back to Paris?" Porthos barked a laugh. They had played this game before. It never stopped being a source of comfort.

"I'm gonna waltz into _Le Spot Solitaire_ and become a rich man within hours," he boasted.

"It's only been five years, I doubt anyone has forgotten your propensity for cards," Athos told him, eyes twinkling. "No sane soul would dare toss their chances in with you," Porthos gave a half shrug.

"Ah, we'll see. I know where you're goin D'Artagnan. Back to that missus of yours," he teased. D'Artagnan still had the grace to blush.

"Maybe I'll do it after you get your winnings," he replied. "That way I can take Constance out, perhaps treat her to a necklace or flowers," he still looked so… Hopeful when he spoke of Constance. It gladdened Porthos's heart to know their youngest had someone to return too at the end of the day.

"Who says I'm sharin my money?" Porthos demanded. D'Artagnan turned to him, his bottom lip poking out and eyes wide in the firelight.

"Please, Porthos?" he beseeched. Porthos pretended to be annoyed at his usual methods of conniving. He was right spoiled, was their youngest.

"Athos, tell him to stop lookin at me like that!" He growled, trying to turn away. D'Artagnan kept on with his face, not relenting for a moment. Porthos felt laughter bubble in his chest.

"Stop falling for it then," was Athos's helpful advice. Then, thoughtfully, he added: "I believe Constance would like a bouquet of flowers. Give him some money, Porthos." Porthos threw his hands up.

"What am I, the money maker?"

"Yes."

"Free-loaders," Porthos accused them, much to their collective amusement. "Fine, but then you have to help me draw in the bait," he told D'Artagnan, who nodded quickly.

"I shall use all wit and charm my friend!" he promised. Porthos snorted and touched the fabric tied about his head, a soft headband that kept sweat from his eyes. D'Artagnan, unlike the two of them, kept his tied about his neck like gentleman of the court.

"Don't get carried away, lad. Only smart men have wit," he harrumphed.

"Hey!" Athos watched them affectionately as a small skirmish took place, Porthos and D'Artagnan content to slap at one another until D'Artagnan called truce with a laugh and wave of the hand. "What are you going to do, Athos?" D'Artagnan asked when they were done.

"Paper work," the Comte replied dryly.

" _After_ that, I mean," Athos seemed to give the question sincere thought. He stared into the fire, breaking a piece of bread from the chunk in his hands slowly. "Well, I could aid Porthos in cheating people out of their money," he considered.

Porthos pretended to be scandalized. "It isn't _cheatin_. It's business."

Athos smiled. "I'll go visit Aramis's grave," he said, at last. They lapsed into another thick silence at that, bowing their heads for a moment in the dead gravity of a broken church. Porthos felt a dull ache begin in his chest, throbbing until it spread along his arms and through his body.

Even after five years, it wasn't any easier to face.

"Guess we could do that first," he agreed hoarsely, past the lump in his throat.

D'Artagnan nodded and looked down. Athos's eyes were soft. "Forgive me," he said. "I've ruined the game."

Porthos could never forgive him, but that was one of the important details he and Athos never discussed. "We were all thinkin it," he grunted.

"You know what I think we all really ought to do?" D'Artagnan inquired. "We should step into the city, plop down in a tavern and drink until we're numb," it wasn't a bad idea.

Porthos spat out an apple seed. "Getting too old for that," he considered. "But may as well. I think we've earned a night of oblivion. Athos?"

Their Captain just arched a brow in their direction, the message clear. _Been there, done that. Liver still hasn't recovered_. "Get some rest," he ordered, lying down on the now empty saddle pack. "We head out tomorrow morning."

* * *

Aramis ducked as another bullet grazed his right ear, narrowly missing its target.

He stood again, took aim, and shot. The log in front of him creaked as his partner landed back at her post. Behind them, a small army of priests and orphans were being led away by Father Lucien, further into the trees. "I'm telling you, Rene, I saw them!" She yelled to him, as another assassin fell a few feet to his left, his pistol dropping.

Aramis huffed and rolled his eyes. "We've been over this, _hermanita!_ " He shouted.

"They're in the church a few miles away. This is your chance!"

"Adelina!" Aramis lunged for her, throwing his body over hers and stabbing his sword into the gut of an advancing assailant. The masked man collapsed when he snatched his sword away. Adelina looked up, her large black eyes holding not a bit of fright.

"I thought I forbade you to speak of this to me!" Aramis reminded her. Adelina laughed and carefully maneuvered herself to a crouching position, reloading her pistol.

"I thought I made it pretty clear what I thought of your forbidding me to do anything!"

She cackled. That was true. She had indeed told him to stick his orders up his ass where they belonged, and it wasn't even the first time she had ever told him that either. Aramis found himself once more wondering why he kept her around if all she did was defy his commands and talk back to him.

Then he glanced up as she landed another successful shot to a man taking aim in a tree branch above them; and smiled. Now he recalled.

"Adelina, you know why they can never know I'm alive," Aramis told her. Adelina shook her head.

"But what if I could find out whether Rochefort lives? He can't threaten them or your son from beyond the grave, can he? Rene, watch your flank, for goodness sakes!" He gasped and swiveled in time to see a man standing over him, a dagger skillfully thrown into his chest. The man collapsed, and silence rung out in the forest. He gave Adelina a charming grin, tipping his hat to her.

"My thanks, _senorita,"_ he said. Adelina crossed her arms and arched a dark brow at him.

"Don't you miss them?"

His answer was honest, and automatic. "More than life," he stood, brushing the dirt and pieces of leaf from his pants. "Father Lucien!" he called into the forest ahead. "Is everyone alright?" A bald head popped out from behind a tree, smiling nervously. A second later, ten small faces also appeared. Adelina stood and hurried over to them, smiling.

Aramis followed her, allowing the Priest to take his hand and shake it vigorously. "We are! We are in your debt, monsieur!" He tipped his hat.

"Think nothing of it," he replied modestly. "When we heard that the Spanish intended to destroy your church, we had to come. Your orphanage is legendary, and I know firsthand the miracles wrought in places of refuge. An orphanage is where I first met my associate here," he waved in the direction of his friend, who smiled. "It is I who should thank you, sir. Your compassion has a wide influence," he nodded toward the orphans.

The Priest shook his head. "We all do God's work in whatever way we can," he replied, shrugging. Aramis smiled.

"Indeed." He chuckled. Adelina walked up to his side, carrying the youngest child, Marx, on her back cheerily. The holsters on her hips swayed, heavy with pistols and daggers. She peered up at Father Lucien.

"Where will you go now, father?" She asked. Father Lucien chuckled and ruffled Marx's hair fondly.

"Away from Douai, that's for certain my child! To Marseille. My brother also has a congregation there. He will give us a safe place for now," Aramis nodded and sheathed his sword.

"Do you need an escort?" He asked.

"Yes, yes! Please, father! Let them come with us!" Marx burst in.

Father Lucien peered at Aramis thoughtfully. "Where are you going?" He asked.

Aramis and Adelina exchanged a glance. "Italy," Adelina answered without missing a beat. "We hope to start new lives there," _now if only we can get across France_ , Aramis thought.

"I should think accomplished warriors such as yourselves would head to Paris," Father Lucien observed shrewdly. Adelina dug a harsh elbow into Aramis's ribs. He jumped, rubbing the now sore spot.

"Wouldn't you think so?!" She agreed, emphatically.

"I'll not hold you, my children," Father Lucien decided at last, reaching out to take Marx. The younger boy went, clinging to Father Lucien like a monkey. "We're fortunate you decided to stop by at any rate. Go. Make your lives in Italy, and may God keep you safe and hale," the words had an air of finality to them, as if Father Lucien did not expect such a thing to happen. Aramis could hardly fault him.

He bowed at the waist, the movement reminding him with a pang of his days at court. "Our thanks, Father."

"Now," Adelina, began, crouching so she could accept hugs from the children. "Be good. Listen to Father Lucien, and don't eat the yellow snow or the red berries!" The children burst into giggles at the commonplace knowledge.

Adelina grinned, a flash of white in an otherwise dark face. "Good. Do you want a pistol to take with you, at least, father? I can spare one." They really couldn't, but Aramis would never argue with Adelina's instinctive empathy. He leaned against a tree and snatched a grass stalk from his pocket, chewing on the end.

"Well…"

"Here, take it." She had pressed the pistol into Father Lucien's hand before he could protest, granting the elderly man a quick kiss on the cheek. "Now go, go! Godspeed!" She waved as the line of innocents descended into the forest, until their songs and childish giggles had abated.

"Should we follow?" She asked when neither of them could see anything more.

"I don't think it's necessary. A few children and a Priest aren't exactly what one would call a threat. Soldiers won't touch them, and bandits have bigger fish to catch. Come on," he put a hand on her shoulder, tugging her away. "We have to get out of the open," Adelina nodded and turned to follow him.

Their steps crunched the fallen leaves beneath their feet as they made their way back the way they'd come. "Do you truly want to go to Italy?" Aramis asked after a moment of compatible silence. Four years of constant companionship did that, he supposed.

Adelina snorted, her young face scrunched in dislike. "No. We'll be better off in England, where at least we know the language. Don't think this discussion is over either, Rene. I saw them, I'm telling you!" Aramis looked up pleadingly, prayed for patience and forbearance.

"I don't doubt you did. The war has paused, at least for now. They're probably searching the countryside for leftover Spaniards, along with the other French troops," Adelina opened her mouth. "Which is why we must leave," he finished before she could continue her point. Aramis spat out the end of his grass stalk, tossing the rest aside. Adelina scoffed.

"Just because we look Spanish doesn't mean we are! The only reason the French are allowed to go home is because of us!" Aramis glared at her.

"Keep your voice down."

"Who's going to hear, the rabbits? You aren't listening. _Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan_ are less than a mile away," he breathed out slowly, easing the pain those names inspired in his heart.

"Adelina…"

" _Aramis,"_ something like lightning sizzled up his spine, excruciating. Aramis slid to a halt, swiveling around to spear her with a cold glare. Adelina stopped in her tracks, meeting his gaze with all the fierceness in her soul. There was some apology there, too. Aramis sighed and turned so that he could face her completely.

"What makes you think they'll even want to see me?" He asked softly. "I've been dead for five years. They've probably moved on, learned to live without me. If I just… _Reappeared,_ what do you think would happen? Not only between me and them, but _to_ them? I am a wanted man, Adelina. I am wanted by the French King for treason and wanted by the Spanish King for murder. It's only a matter of time before someone puts a bullet between my eyes."

"Don't say that!" Adelina snapped. Her chest heaved once, fury and worry warring for dominance in her gaze. Aramis relented immediately, took a step forward but she moved away. Though Adelina was but nineteen, younger even than D'Artagnan had been when he had joined them, her heart and mind were not those of a child. She had seen too much bloodshed, violence… Experienced too much of it herself. It was another reason he did not send her away.

They kept each other sane.

"I'm sorry," he replied, bowing his head to her superior pain. "But my decision is final. We're moving on."

Adelina huffed. "So what? We're just going to keep running? What if they can _help us,_ Rene?" she demanded. "You said your old Captain Treveille is the King's War Minister. What if he can sway the King to your side again? I, personally, wouldn't mind being a Musketeer," the mental image of the small but fierce Adelina in the Garrison shocked a laugh from him.

"You'd make a good one," he agreed.

"Exactly. At least let me _approach_ them," she begged. "I can lure them into the basement of the church somehow. You can hide somewhere nearby, and see them at the very least," Aramis shook his head sadly.

"To see them without being able to speak… That _would_ be torture, Adelina. What use is there is giving myself more reasons for self-loathing?"

"You're going to hate yourself for not speaking to them anyway! This might be the last time you will ever see those men again, Rene. If we manage to escape Miguel, and settle down in a tiny English town, you'll at least have a memory to cling too. Along with that weird wooden whistle of yours," she waved at his breast pocket, where the whistle sat snugly against his chest.

He studied Adelina for a moment. Despite the shocking likeness she had to his mother in personality, the two women could not have looked more different. Adelina's skin was colored like dark caramel, and eyes the same hue as night. Her long black hair, tied into a braid behind her head. She had as much Spanish in her veins as he did. Their stories were at once shockingly alike and yet dissimilar. Her father had been an escaped slave from the colonies, seeking a new life in France, where he had met a woman and fallen instantly in love.

He imagined they had been good people before their death.

"You really want to do this, don't you?" He asked. Adelina didn't hesitate.

"Yes."

He nodded. "Why?"

She threw her hands up in exasperation. "Because… Because… You _deserve_ this, Rene. Five years you've spent trying to end this war by killing Alvaro. Following orders from a man you despise to protect the people you love. Their presence is a sign. A gift from God for your sacrifices!" She came forward, laid gentle hands on either side of his face. She stood just below his height, her silky hair tickling his chin.

Aramis let his forehead fall against hers, tiredly. He closed his eyes as she wiped at the moisture suddenly trailing down his face. He exhaled pain, tried to focus on her calming presence.

"Maybe seeing them alive and healthy will give you some peace, _mi hermano_. For that, I am willing to side track our voyage for a bit. Just give it a chance, Rene," Aramis hesitated, but upon opening his eyes, knew he had been defeated. She gazed at him with such… Honesty and understanding. It had always been her kindness which was the undoing of him. He kissed the palm closest to him and huffed a laugh.

"Alright, _hermanita_. Have it your way. Bring them to the cellar tomorrow morning. I'll be hiding there," he kissed her palm again, making her giggle when his beard tickled smooth skin, and moved back. "What excuse will you use? Damsel in distress who mysteriously vanishes?" He inquired.

Adelina giggled, clapping her hands excitedly. "Oh, why not? It hasn't failed me yet," she said, trotting to keep up with him as he turned West again, heading back to the church they had just evacuated.

Aramis watched the sun set, his stomach fluttering with excitement and anxiety. He could hardly believe that… Less than a day away he would see them again. Be close enough to reach out and touch them. It was more than he had ever dreamed five years ago, when he had shed the title _Aramis_ , King's Musketeer, for the name _Rene,_ French Assassin.

And as he lost himself in the familiar sound of Adelina's voice as she chatted his ear off, he could almost feel the Pauldron on his shoulder again.

The memory stuck to his skin, a kiss refusing to be blown away.


	8. Chapter 8

D'Artagnan knew it was going to be one of those days when Porthos woke up and instantly began berating him for crimes he had never committed. "Your feet stink," was the first accusation. D'Artagnan looked to Athos, silently begging for support. Athos walked past him without a word, slinging the empty saddlebag over his horse's rump, fastening it with his habitual morning scowl.

The sun had risen perhaps not fifteen minutes before. The horses would be anxious to get going again, and by this time the others in their regiment should have searched their respective towns and barns. Hopefully, all would go well, and they would meet at the rendezvous before mid-day today.

The sun cast shards of orange light on the ground from the ceiling. D'Artagnan sighed. "They do not, Porthos," he replied to his grumpy friend. He was always like this in the morning, when he hadn't had enough to eat yet. All they had by way of food was a few crumbly biscuits. D'Artagnan's had been so hard from age he had eventually just chucked it into the fire, so he wasn't in the best mood either _thank you Porthos._

"How would you know? You didn't sleep with them pressed against your ribs last night!" D'Artagnan was hurt. He poured the remaining water in his cup atop the flames, dousing them.

"You were warm!"

Porthos thumped his shoulder as he stomped past to his own horse. "I was _choking_ on noxious fumes," he growled. D'Artagnan laughed.

"Oh, you're just a big baby! My feet don't stink that bad!"

"Could we perhaps have this conversation on the road?" Athos asked, exasperated, as he climbed into the saddle. He crossed his arms, leveling a stern stare in their direction which Porthos and D'Artagnan frankly ignored. Athos in his _commander_ mode had little to no effect on them whatsoever.

"Oh, I'm the baby, am I? Who's using who as a human furnace, youngster!?" Porthos demanded.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to answer, but a quick hiss caught his attention. He looked up to Athos immediately, knowing that Porthos would have caught the sound too. Athos's eyes were trained on a spot in the pews a few feet away, his entire body stiff with insight. D'Artagnan pulled his sword free slowly, the quiet slide a comfort in his hands, jerking his head to the spot in question.

Athos gave a single nod, and he and Porthos moved as one. "Wait!" A quiet voice yelled when they pointed their swords between the pews. D'Artagnan inhaled sharply when nimble arms sprang from hiding, flinching as one hand slapped him hard across the face. Porthos shouted a curse, stumbling backward.

"What the ell?" He roared as their assailant scrambled away. Athos approached over their shoulders, scowling.

"Hello there," he murmured. D'Artagnan, rubbing his cheek, squinted into the shadows where the person had scrambled. His eyes widened when he recognized the outline of a skirt.

"A girl?" Porthos gasped. It was indeed. She looked no older than nineteen years old, wearing a dress which was apparently too small for her. It barely covered her calves.

"It's alright," Athos called, reassuringly. "We're King's Musketeers. We won't hurt you. My name is Athos," he put up his hands in a non-threatening gesture, inching closer. The girl stared at them, trembling. "What's your name?" Athos asked.

"How did we miss her last night?" Porthos muttered to him. D'Artagnan shrugged, studying the newcomer with worry. She had smudges of dirt on her cheeks and legs, as if she had been running through the mud. She was barefoot also, a tattered cloth holding a bloodied dagger to her hip.

He had seen too much of war to be naïve about the toll it took on women. At times, they faced more danger than the men, always at risk of being attacked or coerced by brutes and bullies. He wondered if this girl had been similarly mistreated.

"Sombra," the girl whimpered, with a slight Spanish accent. D'Artagnan exchanged a startled glance with Porthos. She did have the look of a Spaniard about her. A wife of a general, abandoned?

"Sombra?" Athos repeated. She nodded. "Well, hello there," he took off his hat, executing a gentlemanly bow. Porthos and D'Artagnan followed suit. The girl smiled, amused.

"I'm…" she wiped at the moisture on her cheeks. "I'm not a Lady, monsieur's. I'm an orphan. I used to live here with the nuns. I was sent to find firewood a few days ago, but I was…" her voice hitched. "Caught by some soldiers…They… They…"

"Hey," Porthos interrupted as D'Artagnan's blood boiled. "Hey, it's alright. We're not like those other men. We're not gonna hurt you. We won't even touch you, if that's what you want. Do you need bandages?" Sombra shook her head.

"No, I-I don't think so," she peeped. "Do you know where Father Lucien went?"

Athos turned to stare at them. Porthos shrugged. D'Artagnan shook his head. "Was he in charge of this church?" Athos wondered. Sombra nodded again.

"He took care of the Orphans. Oh, I have to find them! What if the soldiers… What if they…?" She shook her head emphatically, covering her mouth to hold back a sob. D'Artagnan moved forward without thinking, gripping her hand tightly. All he could think about was Constance, and how if she was ever threatened like that, he would….

"Don't cry," he entreated. "No, don't cry. We'll help you find him, I promise. This place was empty when we arrived yesterday, but maybe he left a note. We'll help you look. Would that be alright?" Sombra stared at him for a long second, as if she had recognized something within him, before nodding.

"You're very kind," she replied, smiling at them each in turn. "Yes. I'd love some help, if you can."

"We ain't got nowhere more important to be," Porthos assured her, taking up her other hand. He bowed over it, planting a kiss on the knuckles. Sombra looked absolutely astonished. "By the way, all women are ladies, regardless of Noble birth. I'm Porthos, My Lady," she giggled and curtsied.

"Very nice to meet you, Porthos. You're very kind," she repeated. Porthos just flashed a roguish grin as D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"He's no good. I'm D'Artagnan, by the way," he offered his arm, and Sombra latched unto it. Her hands were freezing cold. D'Artagnan scowled. "Have any ideas on where Father Lucien might have put the note?" He asked.

Sombra bit her bottom lip. "Well," she stammered. "He did used to hide candy in the cellar on Sundays," she smiled, feebly. "All the children knew of the hiding place, but he insisted on putting it there anyway. Perhaps he left a note there?" She contemplated. D'Artagnan nodded.

"It's worth a try," he supposed.

"Lead the way, My Lady Sombra!" Porthos invited, making her giggle again as she tugged at D'Artagnan's arm. He smiled as they followed her into the destroyed halls of the cathedral.

"You're French soldiers, yes?" Sombra asked, peering around a corner cautiously. D'Artagnan's heart ached to see her wariness. She must have been through a terrible experience to be so unsure of the world. Then again, he was partially grateful for the vigilance. If they had managed to miss her in their sweep of this place, there was no telling what else might be here.

"Musketeers. From Paris," D'Artagnan agreed.

Sombra nodded sagely. "I'm surprised you didn't shoot me," she admitted. "I know we're at war with Spain. Most people see me and assume I must be the enemy…"

"We don't judge on appearances," Athos assured her.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed. "We ah… We had a brother who was half Spanish. Loyalist son of France there ever was," D'Artagnan met his eyes, seeing the identical anguish etched into Porthos's features. Sombra squeezed his arm, watching them intently.

"I have a brother too," she told them as they neared a staircase. D'Artagnan peered into the darkness suspiciously. Athos started down the staircase first, Sombra and D'Artagnan following, Porthos intuitively taking up the rear. "You three remind me of him, actually."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, he's very brave and kind. Watch your head, Athos, we're here… There are the wine bottles for communion," D'Artagnan exhaled a breath of relief as he ducked into the long cavern. Ahead of them, the tunnel led into more smothering darkness, lit only by a few torches irregularly set along the walls.

Lining the cavern like a second skin were shelves of wine and bibles. A few barrels of wine had been smashed, their empty bellies lying claw-like on the ground. Around them, the pages of elegant bible verses were scattered, desecrated. D'Artagnan heard Porthos growl next to him.

Sombra pointed at the toppled shelves. "He used to hide the candy there. Those soldiers destroyed everything…" She inhaled a shuddering breath, squaring her shoulders. D'Artagnan clasped her hand in a mute show of support. "Let's go," she said.

Athos began rummaging through the intact barrels, his eyes scanning for paper in the dim light. Sombra and Porthos began righting the shelves while D'Artagnan gently replaced the fallen bibles, quickly sifting through the pages in case this Father Lucien would have put something in there.

"Sombra," D'Artagnan grunted, when a slip of paper fell from the bible, its handwriting the scrolling Latin of priests. "Could this be it?" He held up the paper, and promptly froze when a chill ran up his spine.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos yelled. D'Artagnan rolled instinctively, trusting Porthos to take care of whatever danger there was. He heard a muffled thud, and then a spray of bullets. From his peripheral vision, he saw Athos grab Sombra, shielding her with his body. D'Artagnan quickly ducked behind a wine barrel, drawing his sword.

"Ambush!" He yelled as more bullets flew past him.

Porthos landed to his right, cradling a bloody dagger to his chest. "Where's Sombra?"

"Athos has her!"

"Well, then let's go!" Porthos stood from their hiding place, aiming at the darkness threateningly. "C'mon, you cowardly dogs!" D'Artagnan stood beside him, kicking their wine barrel into the fray. He heard cries of pain as it crashed into a shelf further down the tunnel. In the light of sparking pistols, he could see masked faces.

He and Porthos ducked behind a shelf of bibles, shoving some of the books to the side to create holes. D'Artagnan peered out of one, aiming his pistol into the darkness of the tunnel, trying to catch sight of the sparking guns.

Athos appeared like a ghost on their left. "Porthos, look out!" Sombra suddenly yelled from her post at their backs. D'Artagnan gasped as a sudden shadow loomed over his friend, the long nozzle of a pistol aimed at his head. His heart stopped.

"Porthos, no!"

Suddenly, Sombra lunged from her hiding spot, throwing herself at the attacker with a roar. As D'Artagnan watched, the girl grabbed the pistol, shoving its nozzle to aim at the roof while simultaneously stabbing the man's mid riff with her dagger.

He crumpled with a muted gasp. Sombra then yanked her dagger back, eyes narrowed as she turned to study the battle zone with the look of an experienced military commander. The muscles in her wiry arms rippled as she cast her hand back and chucked it suddenly into the tunnel.

Her dagger landed in the heart of one attacker with a dull crunch. Porthos stared at her, wide eyed. Athos looked as if he had been slapped and D'Artagnan… D'Artagnan felt cheated. Who had taught her to do _that?_

"Quickly!" There was no trace of the scared, abused girl now. A woman stood before him, gesturing wildly to his spare pistol. "Give me your gun!"

"What?" He backed away. "No!"

"Who _are_ you?!" Athos added.

Sombra rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter, _idiota!_ Just give me the damned pistol!" Without waiting for permission, she snatched D'Artagnan's pistol from the holster, kneeling at their feet and shooting into the darkness. Two more attackers fell within seconds.

"We have to get out of here!" Athos yelled.

"We can't!" Sombra shouted, one eyes closed as she took aim. "They'll have blocked the entrance! At the top of those steps are more murderers! Our only chance is to stand and fight!" D'Artagnan gawked at her.

"How do you know that?!" Sombra's expression twisted into a grim smile.

"Experience," she replied.

"Sombra!" A voice called from the darkness. The shooting came to an abrupt halt, and D'Artagnan squinted as a torch approached them slowly. A tall man suddenly materialized from the dark, head cocked.

Sombra snarled and stepped from behind the shelving, feet spread, and arms crossed. "Miguel!" she growled.

"Sends his regards," the man finished, in stumbling French. "I'm here to bring about My Lord's justice, girl. Tell me where Rene is," her eyes twinkled dangerously, and she spat at his feet. D'Artagnan watched, warily.

"I'd rather die, you immoral beast!" She hissed. D'Artagnan exchanged a look with Athos and Porthos. Who the hell was this girl?

The man didn't appear surprised. "I know it, _senorita_. What about your friends there? Are they ready to die for the infamous Rene, _el francotirador_?" A flicker of doubt crossed her face, but Sombra did not move.

"You get to them only by getting through me, _cerdo._ And we both know you can't kill me," Porthos started to take a step forward, as if to pull Sombra back into hiding but Athos stopped him with a hand on his arm. D'Artagnan glanced at the exit, wondering how truthful her words were.

"Oh, and why is that?" Sombra's smile, in the dim torchlight, looked especially devilish.

"Because I am the apprentice of _el francotirador_. I am the best markswoman in France!" with that declared, Sombra suddenly ripped D'Artagnan's stolen pistol from her skirt, killing the leader in one fell swoop. Then, if possible, she shocked him more.

She dug beneath the folds of her skirt, revealing two holsters strapped to brown legs, and fired both pistols at once. "I think that's our cue!" Athos grunted, as he ran from hiding. Porthos and D'Artagnan did the same, killing the others with a few shots.

When the fight was over, a silence descended, all of them gasping for breath.

"What the hell?" D'Artagnan shouted when he had regained control of his breathing. Sombra ignored him. She snatched her dagger from the chest of the one she had killed, holding it in one hand while she flung his empty pistol to the side.

"Rene!" She yelled into the darkness. " _Estas Aqui?_ Rene?!" When she got no reply, she stomped her foot. "Damn it, Rene! Always getting into trouble!" She snarled, swiveling on one foot and starting back toward the stairs. Porthos grabbed her arm before she could vanish on them.

"Wait a minute there," he commanded. Sombra glared at him.

"I don't have time, Porthos!" She cried, indignantly. D'Artagnan emerged over his shoulder, scowling.

"We were just almost killed," he pointed out darkly. "I think you owe us an explanation," she snorted and tore her arm from Porthos's grasp.

"Sorry, but it doesn't work that way, _mon ami._ You Musketeers have been very kind, but I must find Rene now. Be on your way if you'd like. I won't stop you," and with that she charged up the stairs. Athos was after her in a second.

"I thought you said they would block the exit!" He yelled.

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Why do we always get the crazies?" he groaned. D'Artagnan had to agree. They followed Athos and Sombra up the steps, watching as she vanished around the corner back into the main Cathedral.

"Rene? Rene! _Estas Aqui!?"_

"Maybe this Rene left her," D'Artagnan huffed as they trailed after her.

"Doubt it," Porthos grunted. "Loyalty like this is rarely one sided. Either this Rene is dead or…"

"Rene!" Sombra gasped as a lanky figured suddenly ran from the pews, sporting a musket in his hands. Around him, six more men lay dead. D'Artagnan caught a flash of long, curly black hair tied into a ponytail at the nape.

Athos gasped, skidding to an abrupt halt. D'Artagnan had seen it too, the familiar flash of jaded eyes and a handsome face. The scrawling designs on the pistols. The thin scar running along the length of his forehead. His lungs suddenly ceased to function, the air leaving him in a long exhale of despair. _Was he hallucinating? Seeing a ghost?_ Porthos ran into D'Artagnan's back, staring at the bodies along the ground.

"Oof! Who did this, then…?" His voice trailed off as D'Artagnan raised a shaking finger at the stranger.

"Adelina," He breathed as Sombra flung herself into his arms. He hadn't even noticed them but they… They had _never_ forgotten him. The stranger lowered the kerchief covering half his face, and D'Artagnan inhaled a sharp breath as those features came into clearer focus. It was him. _He_ was here.

He still hadn't noticed their presence. He put a hand on Sombra's shoulders, examining her frantically. "Are you hurt? Are you alright? How many were there? I heard the shots too late. I was taking care of the others outside. You aren't hurt, are you?" She shook her head.

"I'm fine. I was scared they'd gotten you. Is…?"

"Aramis?" Porthos choked out. The stranger- _Aramis-_ looked up, paling. Sombra turned around, and gasped when she remembered their existence. None of them paid any heed to her anyway. Their eyes were locked unto the man they had thought dead for five years. " _Aramis?"_

He had changed. His face was slimmer, his cheeks sunken in with exhaustion or malnutrition. A straggle of black hair had escaped his ponytail, twisting teasingly into his eyes. The roots at his temples had begun to gray. Nonetheless, there was… No denying it… D'Artagnan felt his knees buckle. Porthos took a trembling step forward, hand outstretched desperately. "Aramis?" He repeated.

Aramis looked as if he had just been gutted. "Porthos," he whispered. His brown eyes met D'Artagnan's, then Athos's, drinking in the sight of them ravenously. "My brothers," he awed. He took a step forward.

Sombra threw her arm out, as if to keep Aramis from rushing to them. Or maybe to keep them from rushing at him. "Wait, Porthos! Wait, please. Tell us this one thing. Is Rochefort still alive?" D'Artagnan's mind spun so much he was surprised he had not yet collapsed.

"R-Rochefort?" Athos stuttered. D'Artagnan had never heard him sound so… Bereft. "What? Aramis, what is she…?"

"Just answer her," Aramis interrupted. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, as if ready to pull her away from them at a moment's notice. He looked like a scared rabbit, preparing to bolt. "I must know. Does he live?"

"No," Porthos replied. "No, Aramis. Rochefort was put to death four years ago now. He's gone," Aramis's eyes widened. One hand shot to his stomach as if he were about to be sick, choking out an indecipherable reply. He paled.

"F-f-four years?" He stammered, breathlessly. " _Four years_?" Sombra exhaled slowly, pushing her face into his chest in a tight hug.

"You're free, _hermano,"_ she whispered. Even her quiet voice echoed in the downtrodden hall. She unwrapped herself from Aramis, looking back and forth between the two parties awkwardly. "Those men could have been part of a larger group," she explained, once more subdued. "I'll go sweep the perimeter, make sure we're safe. Stay here," and with that she jogged across the room, vanishing into a crack in the wall like a mouse.

For a moment, the four brothers just stared at each other across a chasm of space and time that seemed too… Large to cross now. Even physically. "Aramis," D'Artagnan's voice cracked. "No. This isn't possible," his fists clenched, and hot tears stung his eyes. "You're dead. You've been dead for five years now. This isn't possible!"

"It's me," Aramis gasped, smiling crookedly. "D'Artagnan, I'm here," he looked back at his two oldest friends. "Porthos…. Athos… God, I've missed you," he shook his head. "I've missed you so much!"

Porthos was across the room as if those words had opened a floodgate. D'Artagnan could feel more than see his arms wrap around Aramis, enveloping him without hesitation. Porthos's shoulders shook silently.

"Aramis," he breathed when D'Artagnan neared them, putting a hand on Porthos's back as he studied Aramis. His face was buried in Porthos's shoulders, his trembling hands clenching tight knots in Porthos's shirt.

"Porthos," his muffled voice said. He pulled away a moment later, framing Porthos's face in his hands, grinning. His eyes were mysteriously wet. "Porthos, my dearest friend… I don't have words…" Then, as if he had just realized something. "You grew out your beard." Aramis threw his head back, laughing.

"You grew out your beard! Porthos, I've been telling you to do that for _ages_. You look devilishly handsome, my friend. I could kiss you myself," Porthos had the good grace to blush. He chuckled and swiped at his leaking eyes.

"Yeah, well… Shut up, 'Mis," was his wise comeback. D'Artagnan laughed as joy, undiluted and untamable, flooded his veins.

Aramis turned to him, and then he was being hugged like he was being commissioned all over again. He clung to Aramis, shaking. "Mis," he bit, as sobs rose in his throat. "Aramis, you're here. You're truly alive. I can't believe it!" He buried his face in Aramis's shoulder, feeling a warm hand squeeze the back of his neck.

Aramis pushed him back, holding him by the shoulders as he examined him with dancing eyes. "Neither can I," he admitted. He kissed him on the forehead, and D'Artagnan's heart sang. "Little brother, look at you! You've grown so much! You look as dashing as Porthos and… Is that _a ring_?" He gasped, when he noticed the gold band on D'Artagnan's finger.

He nodded shyly. Aramis laughed and pulled him into another tight hug. "Well, you've done it! I'm so happy for you, brother! Is it Constance? Why am I asking, of course it is! I can hardly believe how you've matured," Aramis studied him in the eyes intently, before shaking his head sadly. "I'm sorry I missed all your Birthdays," he blurted.

D'Artagnan laughed.

"Aramis, seeing you again is the greatest gift I have _ever_ received," he breathed. Aramis squeezed his arms.

"Likewise," he murmured. His eyes caught movement over D'Artagnan's shoulder, and he gulped. D'Artagnan turned to see Athos standing a few feet away, his expression thunderous, his fists clenched at his sides. He stared at Aramis, a rare fire of utmost rage in his gaze. D'Artagnan inched closer to Aramis, protectively.

"Brother…" he began at the same time as Porthos.

"You're alive," Athos's voice interrupted sharply. Aramis flinched as if he had been physically struck.

"Athos," he whispered, carefully easing toward their leader. D'Artagnan and Porthos watched from where they stood, apprehensive. "Athos. I'm sorry. I'm…" Aramis held out his arms, helplessly, his eyes wide with shame. "I'm sorry. There are so many things I regret. I-I should have told you, all those years ago, that I was leaving. I shouldn't have made you lie to protect me when I slept with Anne. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Athos!" D'Artagnan couldn't take it anymore. He started to move toward their despairing brother but Porthos grabbed his arm.

"I can't stand to see him like that Porthos!" _How can you?_

"Just wait."

Athos was already moving anyway. In two long strides, he had encased Aramis in a tight hug. Aramis wept into his shoulder, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping him alive. "Athos. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I was foolish… It's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Athos."

"Hush," Athos commanded, sobbing himself. He stroked Aramis's hair, kissing the side of his head repeatedly. "Hush, Aramis. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters now that you're here. Are you alright?"

Aramis nodded quickly. Athos pulled away, cupped Aramis's jaw, his shoulders, swiped away tears with an anxiety and care D'Artagnan hadn't even known he possessed. "I mean, _truly_ alright?" Aramis chuckled a little, nodding.

"Yes, yes. I'm alright, Athos. Forgive me, it's just… I never thought I'd see you three again," D'Artagnan moved forward to stroke his hair.

"Us either," he breathed.

"Mis," Porthos set a hand on his shoulder as Athos continued with his frantic examination. "Where have you been? We've thought you dead for five years!"

Aramis allowed the inspection distractedly. "I know. I know. Forgive me. I was coming to you in Paris five years ago, but Rochefort caught me and I… I didn't have a choice," he shook his head, words flying out so quickly D'Artagnan barely caught them. "Forgive me," he repeated.

Porthos stiffened. "What did Rochefort _do_ to you?" He growled. Aramis just shook his head.

"I'm sorry…"

"Enough," Athos commanded, stepping back. He wrapped an arm around Aramis's shoulder. Porthos did the same from the other side while D'Artagnan laughed, wrapping his arms around them all from behind. Aramis chuckled. "We'll discuss it later. Are you hungry?" Aramis shrugged.

"No," he admitted. "But I'm happier than I've been in five years. Let's sit down. Tell me how you've been doing."


	9. Chapter 9

"I always knew you'd be Captain of the Musketeers one day," Aramis said, several hours later as they all sat around a fire.

The afternoon sun cast warm shadows on the ground. They were already hours late for the rendezvous point, but for the first time in five years, Athos couldn't care less about his command. The other Musketeers would probably come searching by daybreak. He didn't know, and he didn't care.

He could not recall ever being so content.

The four Musketeers had pulled the barrels from the cellar, breaking them open for a feast of wine and the little cheese they had. Porthos had found some pews still intact, and they sat in a semi-straight square, getting to know one another again cautiously, with relish and shyness.

"I said so all those years ago. Didn't I, Porthos?" Aramis inquired, rolling his head to face Porthos, who sat so close to him their shoulders touched. Porthos hadn't stopped grinning in several hours.

He reached over, squeezed Aramis's shoulders and sent an affectionate glance Athos's way. He resisted the urge to blush beneath the silent admiration. "We knew it all along," Porthos agreed.

Athos ducked his head, bashfully. "Yes, well," he mumbled. "No one can replace Treveille…"

"Athos has just managed to completely _out-do_ him," D'Artagnan finished at his side. Athos looked up, horrified by the thought, but Aramis just chuckled.

"I never doubted," he assured them. He rubbed his palms together eagerly. "Speaking of doubts, how _was_ the wedding D'Artagnan? Everything you'd ever hoped?"

"And better," D'Artagnan corrected, with a conspiratorial wink. Aramis guffawed, slapping his knees delightedly.

"Oh, ho ho! I hope you gave him _the talk_ Porthos," he teased.

D'Artagnan blushed as if he were the young recruit he had been when they had first met him, naïve to the ways of the world and easily embarrassed. "I never needed the talk!" He defended.

"I gave it to im," Porthos assured Aramis. "His eyes went round as a fox. You shoulda seen it 'Mis! He looked stupefied," Athos chuckled softly as D'Artagnan just pouted, sipping at his wine while glaring at them. Aramis and Porthos snickered like two schoolboys, having fallen back into their habitual team teasing within moments. Athos leaned back in his seat, studied their absent friend curiously.

He looked years older. Suddenly, he caught movement from the corner of his eyes and jumped as Sombra reappeared from the side of the church. Her dark eyes twinkled with pleasure when she saw the make shift fire they had arranged. "Good!" She chirped. "Whose ready to eat?" She held up a twine which held two dead rabbits. Athos arched his brows. There was nothing timid or defenseless about her now. She had scrapped the original small dress.

Now she wore an emerald dress which fluttered prettily around her ankles. It split at two sides though, revealing a set of leather pants. Around her waist, a purple sash had been tied beneath her weapons belt which held a sword scabbard and two pistol holsters. D'Artagnan's body relaxed from next to him. Athos hadn't been the only one she'd startled, then. "Where did you come from!?" Porthos demanded, having drawn his own pistol in fright. She gave them a charming smile.

"Do you know what sombra means in Spanish?" She inquired, then went on before anyone could answer. "It means shadow. I live up to the name, even if it's not my given one," she said. Then, to Aramis, "The surrounding forest is all clear, but I doubt we've seen the last of those louts. We're sleeping with our pistols tonight, Rene," then she knelt to skin her catch, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Athos looked at Aramis. "I see you know each other," he observed, dryly. Aramis nodded.

"Are you two…." D'Artagnan hesitated. "Lovers?"

Aramis laughed aloud while Sombra gave them a look of pure disgust. "Lovers?" She squawked.

"She's a little young for me, don't you think D'Artagnan?" Aramis mocked, good naturedly. D'Artagnan flushed. Porthos's eyes stormed.

"Well, we wouldn't know, now would we?" He harrumphed. "Being as how we don't know where you've been these past five years," Aramis's smile dropped, chastised. Sombra finished skinning the first rabbit, laying the body over the fire to burn.

"We're _hermano_ and _hermanita,"_ she explained, calmly. "Brother and sister. Family."

"In everything but blood," Aramis agreed, staring at her warmly. He reached out a hand, inviting her to his side. Sombra smiled, covered the last rabbit and bounded over to squeeze into the pew at Aramis's side. He draped an arm around her shoulders. She slipped slim arms around his waist, snuggling beneath his chin.

"My friends, this is Adelina. I met her four years ago in an orphanage just like this one, and she's been my trusted friend ever since. She's the one who convinced me to stay and seek you out in the monastery," he kissed her forehead. "It seems I owe you my life once again, _senorita,"_ he murmured into her hair.

Sombra- Adelina- shrugged. "I'll add it to your tab," she promised.

"So you weren't lying about being an orphan, at least," Porthos observed, squinting at the actress suspiciously. Adelina smiled.

"The best lies always have bits of truth floating in them, my friend. I also wasn't lying about not being a lady, though you were sweet enough to call me one anyway," she reached up to pinch Porthos's cheek. He grumbled and swatted her away, but he looked comforted.

"Yeah, well, guess I owe you my life too," he acquiesced. Aramis's eyebrows shot up, he peered at her curiously as Porthos offered his hand. "Thank you."

Adelina met it in a warrior's strong grip, smiling. "My pleasure," she chirped.

D'Artagnan chuckled. "How did you two meet?"

"I met Rene four years ago in Marseille. I had been an orphan in a monastery there since my parents died when I was seven, preparing for life as a nun. Once the war started, soldiers came to the town to conscript all boys ten and older for the army. Including boys from the orphanage. They tried forcing some of the girls and nuns to come too, to warm their beds," her eyes hardened. Aramis's eyes twinkled with pride as he rubbed a hand up her arms, comfortingly.

"Instead of sitting by, Adelina started an uprising," Aramis explained. "Of children and nuns. They fought with little but old muskets and pitch forks. Unimpressive, but brave. They managed to dislodge the soldiers and hold down the orphanage for weeks, eventually freeing the entire town from occupation. I arrived just as artillery was brought in," D'Artagnan's eyebrows shot up.

"To destroy a town of civilians?"

Adelina's chin jutted out. "To break our spirits. We had defied them, and defiance is rarely tolerated in war. The town was starving, losing hope. I was just about to call surrender when _this_ lone idiot came waltzing through. He and I contrived a plan to sneak past the soldier's lines and take out their commander. They scattered after that…"

"And Adelina hasn't stopped following me since!"

" _Following you_? You basically begged me to come along when you saw my skill with a pistol! I learned how to shoot before I learned how to use a spoon. I'm the best markswoman in France and Spain," she told the brothers proudly. Aramis rolled his eyes.

"She's overconfident, as you can see, but fearless," Athos exchanged a look with D'Artagnan and Porthos. They had indeed witnessed her fearlessness a few hours before, in front of an entire gang of armed men. Athos recalled the earlier discussion with clarity.

 _"How do you know that?"_

 _"Experience."_

"I keep Rene in line," Adelina told them, turning the spit with her booted foot lazily. Aramis snorted and said something in Spanish, pushing her upright. Adelina gave him a dirty look but crouched near the food, turning it slowly with her hands instead.

Athos leaned forward, locked eyes on his friend. "Rene?" He inquired softly. It was time. Aramis's smile vanished as he met his gaze, something _dark_ dropping into place of his cheerfulness.

"My Christian name," he answered the unspoken question. "Given to me when I went to live with my father at the age of twelve. Me and my father never saw… Eye to eye, so to say. The moment I left his patronage, I reclaimed the name Aramis. It's what my mother called me. But," he shrugged. "New life, new identity, new name. I go by Rene now," Athos and Porthos exchanged a startled glance. Both of them knew how much Aramis had despised his father. To take the name he had given him was either a capitulation of defeat, or an uncharacteristic plea for help.

"So those men came here lookin for you. Why?" Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed. "They were agents of the Spanish King. Their objective is to find, retrieve or kill any French spy or assassin," his smile looked like it pained him. "So, yours truly." Athos felt a shiver wrack his spine as he stared at this brother he barely knew, a shadow standing in the shoes of his best friend.

"What are you talking about?" D'Artagnan blurted, shocked. "You're a Musketeer!" For one so jaded, he was still very young.

Athos leaned back in his seat, eyeing Aramis warily. "Rochefort said you've done horrible things," he whispered. Adelina stiffened, quickly standing to her feet. Athos saw her fist clench around her sword, eyes flashing dangerously. Aramis put his elbows on his knees, digging fingers into the ponytail behind his head.

There was a long moment of silence. Porthos broke it by settling a worried hand on his friend's knee. "Aramis," he breathed. "Where've you been?"

Aramis raised his head; but did not take his eyes from the ground. "I cannot tell you everything," he said. "For your own safety as much as France's. But… Do you remember the last note I ever sent you, five years ago?"

Athos nodded, dug the letter from his jacket pocket. "I have it here." Now Aramis looked up, with eyes wider than a startled rabbit. His eyes scanned the paper, as if he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Adelina inhaled sharply, blinking rapidly.

"You _kept_ it?" He gasped.

Porthos and D'Artagnan both whipped out their own copies, smiling sheepishly. Aramis's head snapped around to stare at each in turn, mouth opening and closing without sound. "We all kept one of your letters. They're… Almost like bibles to us now. Inspiration. Amusement," Athos lowered his voice. "Comfort."

"Along with these," Porthos slung the blue sash from his forehead, holding it up for Aramis to see. The other man stared at the object as each of them untied it from their respective places, bringing the sash into the light. "I'm sorry, Mis, but we had to cut it." Aramis blinked blankly, evidently not recognizing the soiled pieces of a once beloved item.

Athos shook his head, sighing. "It's your sash, Aramis. The one…"

"That used to belong to your mother," Porthos finished quickly.

Aramis's eyes widened. "You _kept_ that?" He repeated, voice pitched high with astonishment.

"It was the last thing we had of you!" D'Artagnan cried, sounding horrified that Aramis should even ask. "Why wouldn't we? How did Rochefort get it anyway? He used it as…"

"Proof of my demise? I know," Aramis shivered and reached up, rubbing his wrists. Athos could see the faint outline of scars and felt his breath hitch. The sash had been covered in blood when Rochefort had been arrested. That blood hadn't been fake… He looked to Porthos, saw that he, too, had noticed the movement. His nostrils flared, fury kindling in his eyes.

Aramis let out a shuddering breath. Adelina and Porthos both reached out at once, laid soothing hands on his back. "I'm touched," Aramis sniffled. "You must recall that I promised to find you in my last one," Athos nodded. He had that letter, no matter how many times Treveille had begged him to burn it for his own sake.

"I _was_ on my way to Paris, I swear it. First, I stopped off in Agen. Those few I'd seen who'd also been sent away, Musketeer and Red Guard alike, had all been forced to commit horrible crimes. Once they were done, we suspected Rochefort would try and have us all killed," Adelina settled back into her seat cautiously, gently snatching the band from Aramis's hair. His hair fell around his face immediately, all black curls and silky strands. She began carding her hair through the locks, combing them with sisterly love.

"In those days, there was no such thing as Musketeer and Red Guard. We were all scared men trying to follow orders. I made a pact with them. Should Rochefort send his agents to kill us, we'd meet in Agen. We knew that there was strength in numbers. The day I wrote you that letter, I had woken up to see a man standing over me with a knife. I knew it was time, for me and the others. I assume, from your expressions, that I am once again the sole survivor of a massacre?" Adelina paused.

Athos flinched. Damn it. He had hoped they may be able to keep that bit of information secret for the moment. He saw the same regret on Porthos's face. He nodded. "I'm sorry, Aramis."

The other man bowed his head, clasping his hands as if in instinctive prayer. "I thought so. I had hoped…." His clenched fists tensed, then relaxed. "It doesn't matter. Someone sold us out. I scribbled that note as quickly as I could; and sent the messenger off. I could have followed him back to Paris, but I didn't want to risk that you might not receive the letter if I was caught. Even more, I was afraid Rochefort would find out I had been in communication with you three and enact retribution. So I headed to Agen, and was met by Rochefort and his men. They overpowered me, took me prisoner, and Rochefort gave me this." He held up a crinkled, torn shredding of papers. Athos reached for it instinctively. Aramis pulled away.

"My last orders. I cannot tell you what they are, only that they took me to Spain."

Athos scowled. "Why did you follow them? Surely you must have known that Rochefort was a deserter by then. A criminal." The rabbits were burning. Adelina stood, grabbed it before it turned completely black.

She presented the spit to D'Artagnan silently. He took it from her, nodding his thanks. She began skinning the other as they passed around the food. Aramis waved it away when he was offered.

"Eat, Rene," Adelina ordered.

Aramis ignored her. "I did know. I taunted him with the knowledge, and that… That's when he told me Constance had been imprisoned. That the King knew about me and the Queen," Athos glanced at Adelina warily. Aramis noticed his unease and smiled reassuringly.

"Don't fret, _mon ami._ Adelina is my family. She knows the true parentage of _The Dauphin_ ," Athos nodded, even as his heart panged. He was sure that had he not caught Aramis with the Queen that night, the marksman never would have confided in any of them. Yet it seemed this girl warranted complete honesty.

"I was undaunted. I had been careful to ensure there was no proof of me and Anne, that any accusation would be based on falsehoods. I knew Constance, and you three, would never betray me. But…. Then he told me we were at war," Aramis shuddered. "I knew then not to underestimate him when he threatened to send his assassins after you three." D'Artagnan jolted as if struck. Athos felt his stomach plummet in pity.

"Us?" Aramis nodded.

"Please understand… I was terrified. My friends, I have seen more of this world than I ever wanted. I have seen depths of men's hearts I never thought… And Rochefort was one of the vilest. He had endless connections, a miasma of men who could snap your neck in minutes. I've met some of them. When he said he'd… Kill you, I caved instantly. How could I not?" he looked up, desperately seeking understanding.

Athos granted it reluctantly. He doubted he would not have done the same in that situation. "That's why…"

"That was why Adelina asked you if he was dead before I could approach you," Aramis finished his unspoken thought. Porthos growled in his throat, but Athos was not sure if it was from protectiveness or anger at Aramis for his blind recklessness.

"He believed that Treveille would only stop looking for him if he stopped looking for me, and so everyone had to believe that Aramis the Musketeer was dead. In order to end this war, I had to believe it too. I took a new name, abandoned my Pauldron somewhere in Southern France and left to try and end this war I helped start."

"Rene," Adelina admonished. "You didn't…" He hushed her.

"I've accepted my role in the world, Adelina. Brothers, I swear I didn't know Rochefort was dead. I didn't even know he'd been _captured._ I would have at least sent word to you that I was alive as soon as I knew you were safe from him," Aramis rubbed the back of his neck. "If only you were safe from me," he lamented.

"Hey!" Porthos protested, his eyes softening a bit with sympathy. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Aramis took great pains to study his palms. "Among the spies and assassins of Spain, I am known as Rene, _el francotirador_ ," he admitted quietly.

"The sniper," Adelina translated when she saw their confused expressions. "They say that Rene could stand at the edge of the world, shoot backward and hit his target. Some believe him to be a folk legend. Others know he's real. The latter are the ones we are trying to escape. The Spanish assassins were ordered to round up or kill the French ones after the war."

 _"I'm here to bring about My Lord's justice, girl."_

It seemed justice and revenge were the same thing these days.

"So, they're hunting you?" D'Artagnan rubbed his chin, considering options. "How do they know who you are?"

Aramis and Adelina exchanged a look of soundless communication. When Aramis spoke next, his words were careful, measured. Athos had seen the same wariness in French spies he had met, their words always carefully weighted in their mouth before coming forth. _I remember an Aramis who couldn't help but speak his heart, damn the consequences,_ he thought sadly. It seemed that Aramis was gone.

"The same way I know who they are. You tend to learn faces and names when you travel in the same they catch me, I could be dragged back to Madrid and hung. I doubt they'll want me alive. They just plan to kill me, and Adelina here," he hugged her to his side protectively.

"Who is known as Sombra, the shadow. Whoever my bullet misses in the day, she stabs or shoots from the darkness of night. Anyone who travels with me- who is seen speaking to me- is subject to be killed. Even being here now has put you all in terrible peril. I am sorry."

Porthos snorted. "Don't be. Seein you is worth all the danger."

Aramis's smile was tired but full of gratitude. "Thank you, _mon frère_. I don't deserve your friendship," he spread his palms helplessly. "I'm ashamed to admit that what Rochefort told you was true. I have done terrible things… Monstrous things."

 _"I did you a favor! I did the entire kingdom a favor! He was a MONSTER!"_

Athos's breath hitched. Surely, that couldn't be true. The Aramis he had known would never do anything which defied his strict code of honor. He had enough problems following orders as it was. Adelina smacked Aramis's chest with the back of her hand angrily. He jumped, surprised by the sudden pain. "You're a _hero!"_ Adelina argued. "You killed Alvaro and ended this war!" Aramis paled. Porthos gasped.

"Adelina!" Aramis snapped.

" _You're_ the one who killed Alvaro, the Spanish minister?" D'Artagnan demanded. Aramis stared at them for a moment, defiantly, his lips pinched together. Athos wanted to shake him. Aramis had done it, _he_ had ended the war?

"'Mis?" Porthos pressed.

Aramis exhaled a slow breath. "It was my last order from Rochefort," he answered.

"You've been trying to kill Alvaro for five years?" Athos asked, astonished. Adelina laid her head on Aramis's shoulder, whispered something softly into his ear and walked away. Aramis looked smaller without her by his side.

"I killed a few Cabinet members in the Spanish court as well," he reported, in a small voice. "The Spanish won't be able to regroup for awhile, so hopefully diplomacy can begin. I trust you all to help make it so…" at those words, Athos felt a jolt of alarm.

"What do you mean?" Silence. Porthos had heard the slight catch in Aramis's voice as well. He straightened, glaring at his friend with narrowed eyes.

"Aramis… Aren't you comin?" Aramis didn't move; or look any of them in the eye.

"You're not," Athos realized. "You aren't coming back to Paris with us."

At the accusing tone, Aramis shook his head. "Nothing would make me happier, _mes amis,_ nothing! But I am being hunted as we speak by several assassins. I don't dare bring that into Paris, into the Musketeer Garrison or the Louvre! It could turn into a slaughter if anyone gets in their way!"

D'Artagnan lunged from his seat, taking Aramis's hands into his own. "We can protect you!" Aramis squeezed the hands in his grip, his eyes sincere and unchanging.

"No, you can't! D'Artagnan, these people are ruthless and cowardly. They are not like you… They do not have any concept of decency or honor. They have killed hundreds of people without fanfare. They could slip a dagger between your ribs without you ever being aware. It's their job. I don't want them near Paris, or the Garrison…"

Athos refused to let his heartbreak show outwardly. He was sure he would go to his knees if that happened, and judging from the beat of his heart, he might faint as well. "Where will you go?"

"Adelina and I are heading North. The Spanish don't like to travel too far from their homeland. We'll make a life in a secluded city, in England or Wales."

Porthos took his hand from Aramis's knee, slapping it down on their bench angrily. His nostrils flared. "So, that's it? We get you back for a night and then you leave again?"

Aramis looked increasingly uncomfortable. "This is just as painful for me, Porthos. I'd do anything…!"

"Then _do_ anything!" D'Artagnan interrupted, tugging at Aramis's hands persistently. "Come home! We've fought five years without you. We don't want to go another day."

"I don't have a choice."

"No, you do. You can choose _us_ over your fear."

Aramis stood, waving his hat as if beleaguered by bees. "I will stay with you tonight, and in the morning Adelina and I must go." The finality of his words struck Athos's heart like a clap of thunder. He closed his eyes, absorbing the impact. When he opened them again, Aramis was staring at him like a man resigned to his death.

"Why wait?" Porthos snapped. "Go then! Abandon us, if that's what you want. Guess all for one doesn't mean a thing to you, eh? Guess the only one allowed to protect 'is brothers is you!" And then he was stomping away. Aramis watched him forlornly.

"I assume you both feel the same?" He asked, quietly. D'Artagnan let out a sound of disgust, standing to follow Porthos into the darkness.

"Goodbye Aramis," He snarled as he marched past. "Porthos, wait!" Athos watched as Aramis stood in his spot, swaying dizzily. After a second, he collected himself, his spine going erect as he brushed of his hat. His expression clouded over from resignation to easy acceptance. He tipped his hat in Athos's direction and started to walk past.

Athos grabbed his arm before he could, staring into his expressionless face. Once, Aramis would have crumpled if he knew he had caused Porthos so much distress, but now… Now he looked as hollow as a gourd. "Don't leave. Not until you've made peace with them," Athos pleaded.

Aramis did not meet his eyes. "I don't think that's possible, Athos."

"Then make it so, damn it! Aramis… You can't just run away again. It's cowardly!"

His smile was small. "Any bravery in me died the same day I took a new identity, Athos," Aramis smirked bitterly. "I am indeed a coward, a murderer, a fool. And my name isn't Aramis. Aramis is _dead,"_ he snatched his arm away. "My name is Rene."

Then he, too, was walking away.


	10. Chapter 10

Porthos couldn't fathom how many times he had done this in his lifetime. Sat alone in the empty Garrison or a dirty alleyway, whittling away at some piece of wood he had found useless on the ground, floating in a stream. He had never done it in a church, however.

He supposed there was a first time for everything. He had never had someone he loved _come back to life,_ either.

This piece of wood had broken from the shelving in the basement. Porthos had managed to find a lantern down there too. It sat next to him, lighting the way as he created a miniature sword from the curved lump. He didn't know what he would do with it. He glanced up when D'Artagnan murmured in his sleep across from him. He was asleep next to Athos, curled into a loose ball like a child.

He looked younger that way, more relaxed. Athos had finally nodded off beside him, his watch being relieved more than an hour before. He slept sitting up against a pew, a pistol in one hand. The embers of their fire crackled softly between them.

Porthos let his eyes wander. A few feet away, her back to a corner, Adelina was also snoring softly. She, like Athos, slept with a pistol in one hand. Like D'Artagnan, she looked like a child while she was asleep, her hard features relaxed into softness. Porthos had little doubt that if startled, she would come alive like an avenging spirit. He could see the soldier's readiness in her.

Suddenly, a shadow moved from the darkness. Porthos's hand twitched toward his sword, but it was only Aramis. He crossed the room, not meeting Porthos's gaze, and knelt by Adelina.

With a gentleness that choked him, Aramis leaned over and gently eased the pistol from Adelina's grip, muttering something softly. She waved at him with the sleepy anger of a hibernating bear.

"Go _away,"_ she growled, clutching the pistol like it was her favorite toy.

Aramis chuckled softly. "I've got watch, Adelina. Let me have the pistol."

"Where's your istol?" She slurred, not opening her eyes.

"I figure if we get ambushed by several mercenaries, it'd be a good idea to have more than one," grumbling, she relinquished her prize, brows thundering even in sleep. It was kinda cute. Aramis apparently thought so. He ran a hand down her arm affectionately, stretching to land a chaste kiss on her forehead.

Adelina's features softened into sleep again. "Sweet dreams, _hermanita,"_ Aramis murmured, as he snapped the pistol into his weapon's belt and stood.

He remained where he was, staring down. Porthos had a feeling he wanted to say something but couldn't. Didn't matter. He had observed some stuff too, changes in his old friend. He returned to his whittling. "You really love her," Porthos remarked.

Aramis shrugged. "She's my sister."

"Yeah, I got that. You check the woods?" Aramis gave him a wary look but eventually seemed to conclude that Porthos wasn't going to banish him. He moved closer to the fire, settling himself beside Porthos with a grunt as his knees popped.

"I did," he answered, rubbing his sore joints. "I left some clues for the rest of your regiment to follow, too. I assume they'll come looking by morning," not a bad assumption. Porthos glanced at him, curiously. Aramis laid his head against the wall behind them.

"I haven't forgotten how a soldier thinks, my friend," Athos twitched in his sleep, moaned something incomprehensible. Porthos glanced at him, felt the usual stirring of pity. He knew from experience there was little he could do to help. "He has nightmares," Aramis stated, his eyes also on their friend.

Porthos sighed; and set his project down. Aramis picked it up, studying the fine curves with a fond expression. "When we thought you dead, Athos blamed himself for it," _and I did too._ "Even knowing you're alive, pain's not gonna go that easy," for any of them. Aramis looked up, eyes wide.

"What? How could it have possibly been his fault?" He demanded. Porthos's mouth curved at the edges, half amused and half bitter.

"He stopped drinking, you know," Aramis wasn't getting answers that easy from him. If he wanted to know, he'd have to ask Athos himself, which meant he would have to return with them to Paris. But that wasn't going to happen, was it? "Completely."

Aramis grinned. "I'm proud."

"He's always scared a lapse in judgement will cause unnecessary death. That he'll lose more brothers," Porthos felt more than heard Aramis sigh, resting his pistol on his knees as he faced the destroyed doorway of the church.

"That's why I stopped taking command, after Savoy," he agreed. "It weighs on you, those deaths. I'd never wish such knowledge upon him, but I have to admit, there's none more suited to the task," well, they agreed on something, at least. "Have you met a woman, yet?" Aramis suddenly blurted.

Porthos blinked and turned to stare at him. "Huh?"

"You or Athos? Have you found a woman like D'Artagnan has?" Porthos barked a vicious laugh that echoed. D'Artagnan shuffled in his sleep, and he quieted.

"In what free time? Not all of us get to travel the country at whim, saving orphans and infiltrating Spanish courts," Porthos hissed. Aramis did not rise to the bait. He smiled, stretching his hands above his head like a cat.

A few more bones cracked, and not for the first time, Porthos wondered if Aramis's body had aged past his years. None of them had gray hairs yet, after all. Even if Porthos had been through enough frights to merit an entire head of gray hair.

"You make it sound so… _Adventurous._ "

He took the wooden carving Aramis offered him. "Wasn't it?"

"More like lonely. Terrifying. I've been… Fixated on one mission for so long now, it feels odd to have it finished. Like I don't know where to go next without a set of orders telling me what to do."

Porthos couldn't resist. "You could come back with us. Be a Musketeer again," he replied.

"Adelina says the same thing. She wants to be a Musketeer," Porthos squinted at the silhouette of the sleeping girl, recalled her skill with dagger and pistol.

"She's a warrior, alright," he grunted. "I don't think Athos would be against giving her a commission. It'd be nice to have a sister, I think," well, _another_ sister. Constance was practically family at this point, and they had always seen her as a kind of little sister. Despite her skill with a sword and pistol, Constance was better at organizing and planning, the day to day work of running a Garrison or business. _Really,_ Porthos thought distantly _. She's just smarter than the rest of us._

"Well, when you do find a good woman, and have your first son, I want to inform you that I will _know_ if you don't name him Aramis. I'll feel it," Porthos chuckled despite himself.

"I'm not naming my firstborn son after you," he told him. Aramis looked scandalized.

"Don't tell me you're naming him _Athos?!"_ He gasped, with such drama that Porthos bit his bottom lip to hold in a loud bark of laughter. He nodded, loving the expression of utter betrayal Aramis sported.

"Ah, Porthos, he'll be an insistent mope! A moody intellectual. No fun at all. Is that what you want?"

"Least he'll be _loyal…"_

"And boring. Loyally boring. I hope you're proud of yourself, Porthos," he was, actually. Now they were snickering together, trying to hold in the sound of their mirth while watching Athos's expression. Their leader shifted in his sleep, as if he could feel them laughing at his expense. It was almost like the old days, where they had teased Athos behind his back like silly children, waiting to see if big brother heard.

"I almost forgot what this feels like," Porthos murmured when they gained control of themselves again. "Laughing like this."

Aramis's eyes rolled over him, then back again to the ceiling. "I know you three still bicker."

"Of course, but laughter…" Porthos shook his head slowly, trying to conjure the faintest memory of them carelessly laughing since the war began. "We're always surrounded by death. Things just ain't as funny anymore. And we went straight into war after being told that you…" Porthos's voice lapsed into a thoughtful silence, Porthos trying to blink back the sudden tears that sprang to his eyes and Aramis trying not to meet his stare.

This time, Aramis broke the silence. "You know, in the beginning, I'd stay up entire nights writing letters to you three in my mind. I'd recount my day, every detail, to you. I'd hang unto trinkets and objects, convincing myself they were gifts for you or Athos or D'Artagnan or Constance. My son," _sounds lonely,_ Porthos thought.

"Still got any of em?"

"No," Aramis replied sadly. "Eventually they were lost, or I sold them for food. Though, I never did manage to let go of this," he held up a small wooden whistle.

Tears blurred Porthos's vision as he took the small trinket with trembling hands. "You kept it?" he croaked.

Aramis nodded. "It's become as sacred to me as The Queen's cross. Even that I had to sell one day, or else let Adelina go hungry. I knew which Anne would want, but _this,"_ Aramis reached over, plucked the whistle from Porthos's grip and pressed it to his lips. "This was irreplaceable. My most prized possession. I've learned how to use it to play music. I'll whistle away on it sometimes for inspiration. Amusement," Aramis's eyes gleamed lowered his voice. "Comfort."

Porthos placed a hand over the letter beneath his shirt, felt the paper itch his smooth skin. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision. "I know the feelin," Porthos agreed wholeheartedly.

"Do you remember the promise you made me, after Savoy?" And now he was cryin. Great. He couldn't speak, so Aramis went on, examining the whistle in the darkness. "You promised that you'd never abandon me. That you'd stay by my side no matter the enemy or obstacle," Porthos looked down, nodded quickly.

He remembered that night, holding Aramis by the shoulders and shaking him to get the stubborn idiot to comprehend _that he was not Marsac_. That their friendship did not have an expiration date or boundary line.

"When Marsac left," Aramis continued, in a voice choked with pain. "It broke my heart. I couldn't see much past my own guilt and grief. Now, I see the other side. I know what it is to feel you have no choice but to leave. I wish it were not so, Porthos. But since it is," now Aramis reached over, pressing the whistle into Porthos's palm, and closing his fingers around it gently. "Since it is, I release you from your vow. In the morning, we will part ways, and I do not want you to feel the pain I did. I want you to _let me go…"_

"No," Porthos whispered, swiveling to face his friend. His heart throbbed in his chest, strangling him with despair. "No, you don't get to release me, and you don't get to be released either! All for one, Aramis. Now and forever. You're not Marsac. Rochefort doesn't get to destroy our friendship like this!"

"He will _never_ ," Aramis hissed, with conviction. "Destroy the regard I have for you three. Ever, Porthos, do you understand? It isn't possible. We'll always be brothers…"

"Then don't leave!" It was a miracle they hadn't woken the others yet. Porthos grabbed Aramis by the shoulder, stared into his eyes intently. "Please," he added quieter. "Please don't leave. Aramis, these past five years have been hell. Don't make me go through it again. Come home. I'm beggin ya, alright? Come home," he urgently willed his desperation to shine through.

Aramis had never been able to refuse him anything if he said _please_ before. He could barely stand to refuse him anything _at all_ because Porthos never asked. A lifetime in the Court of Miracles had ingrained in Porthos a fierce need for self-sufficiency. If he asked, he was serious. He was desperate. The Aramis he had known would never turn him away.

The one before him hardly blinked. Instead, he grabbed Porthos's hand and slowly lifted it from his shoulder.

"My name isn't Aramis," Porthos's heart plummeted.

"That's the name your mother gave you…"

"My mother would have been ashamed if she knew the things I've done. All that was good about me lives in you now, and I will protect that to my last breath," Aramis stood, vanishing into the gloom. "Let me go, Porthos," The whistle felt like lead in his hands, heavy and burdened with pain.

Porthos gawked at _Rene's_ back. When he turned his head, he saw Athos's eyes wide and staring back at him, his soul shattered. They both knew the truth now. Porthos had thought he'd seen a brother resurrected, but this man wasn't Aramis. He was, as Rochefort had said, a shadow of the man he'd once been. A ghost.

Aramis was dead.

* * *

When he woke up next, there were tear tracks drying on his face. They itched along his face, down the canals of his nose, invisible only in appearance. Porthos swiped at them when he sat up, having turned his back to the wall and fallen asleep after an exhausting whispered argument with Athos.

The other man was already awake, dumping a few more twigs unto a fire that had roared to life. Sunlight filtered in from the east, dotting the floor in dots of color. Porthos could hear the birds chirping peacefully outside and shifted.

D'Artagnan and Adelina walked into the room, noticed his wakefulness. "Good morning," Adelina chirped, holding up her line of freshly caught fish. "Ready for breakfast?" Porthos nodded silently. D'Artagnan clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past, his smile strained.

Athos only glanced up when he walked over, running a hand over his face tiredly. "Aramis?" Porthos asked. Athos shrugged.

"Gone when I woke," he replied.

Adelina knelt by the fire, taking the fish D'Artagnan handed her as he gutted them. "He's filling our water skins," she answered Porthos's question, eyes on the fire. Porthos wondered how she knew that, decided not to ask. He stared at her somberly.

"Can't you talk to him?" he asked softly. "Convince him to come back with us?" Adelina sighed, and looked up with eyes at once empathetic and challenging.

"I've tried," she admitted. "I'm sorry boys, he's not changing his mind anytime soon. I'd hoped seeing you would make him understand that he's free from Rochefort's orders and missions. He can decide his own fate now. But it will take some time," time none of them had. D'Artagnan's face turned to stone.

"Let him go, then," he growled. "Good riddance."

"D'Artagnan," Athos warned, glancing at Porthos. He didn't remark upon their youngest's outburst, just sat down heavily.

Adelina shook her head, tsking. "Ah, sweethearts, you're just like him," she mourned. "Stubborn, loyal and entirely too brave," Porthos didn't know if that were a compliment or not, so he just shook his head.

"You caught a lot of fish," D'Artagnan said to Adelina in the remaining silence, broken only by the crackling of food over the fire. "I can guess which one of you cooks," Adelina wrinkled her nose.

"Rene does most of the time. I hunt. He's not a bad cook, actually, even with the meager materials we usually have," she rolled her eyes pointedly. "Not that I'd ever tell him that," Athos chuckled.

"You just did," Adelina swiveled around, gasping. Porthos had to admit his heart had jumped too. He hadn't even heard Aramis come into the room. The other man waltzed in, his body movements careless as the wind, grinning. "And I will never forget it. Thank you, Adelina," Aramis said, playfully tugging at Adelina's braid. She glared at him spitefully, slapping his chest half-heartedly.

"Don't eavesdrop! Is my water skin filled up?" she demanded.

Aramis nodded, fidgeting with his weapon's belt as if afraid he'd forgotten something. It wasn't likely. Porthos had never known Aramis to be lax with his weapons. D'Artagnan took a vicious bite of fish, chewing angrily. Aramis pretended not to notice.

 _"_ _Si senorita."_

"Why do you two speak Spanish so often?" Athos interrupted, curiously. Porthos had been wondering that too. Aramis and Adelina exchanged a look, as if surprised that someone else had noticed.

"Habit, I suppose. We've just spent a year in Spain, after all. By the way, your regiment should be here in about ten minutes. They found the clues I left in good time," Aramis dipped his head to Athos. "You've led them well, Captain."

Athos returned the respectful salute. "All I had to do was not give up on them. You taught me that," he replied.

Adelina grabbed the remaining fish, pushing it over to D'Artagnan, then stood. "Here, take it for the road. Share it with your brothers." Porthos felt a hard knot clench his stomach. It was time, then.

D'Artagnan looked suddenly uncertain. His gaze flitted from Adelina to Aramis. "You don't want any?"

"We're used to going without. We'll be fine," Adelina assured him. She set her hands on her hips as the three of them stood, looking them over fondly. "Now," she began, coming over to cup their faces, granting them each an affectionate kiss on the forehead. Porthos squeezed her arm as she pulled away.

It really would have been nice to have a sister.

"Don't dally. Don't look back. Keep being such sweethearts, alright? And don't worry. I'll keep our brother out of trouble. When we're settled somewhere, I'll make sure he writes," she promised.

"If you'd be so kind," Athos agreed, dryly.

"You take care, my lady," D'Artagnan murmured. Adelina nodded, and turned to Aramis. They exchanged a moment of silent communication. Then, with a last smile and wave, Adelina trotted into the sunlight, quiet as a fox.

The four of them stood, alone, inside a destroyed holy center.

Porthos had wept himself dry, but he still felt tears come to his eyes. "You're really doing this, aren't you?" D'Artagnan growled. "You're just… _Leaving_? You expect us just to let you go?"

Athos was the one who answered. He took a step forward and gently hauled Aramis into a hug. "We're not letting him go. He's letting _us_ go," he replied. Aramis nodded as they pulled away, a crooked smile cleaving his face in two.

" _You'll_ name your firstborn Aramis, won't you?" He asked. Athos glared. "Fine. Just don't name him Porthos. I'll go mad with jealousy, wherever I am," Athos shook his head fondly.

"Stay out of trouble," he implored.

Aramis winked. "You know me, brother. Everywhere I go, I cause a stir, but this time," Aramis's eyes softened. "I'll take your advice to heart."

Athos wasn't fooled. He smiled wanly. "So, you won't stay out of trouble?"

"Not for lack of trying," Athos just sighed and turned to them. D'Artagnan crossed his arms defiantly. Porthos sighed and stepped forward. Aramis eyed him cautiously.

"I'm sorry," he breathed. "That I am not the person you want me to be," Porthos just shrugged, though inwardly he desperately wanted to strike out at his old friend, to strangle him before he let Aramis leave. Some part of him thought it would have been better to have never discovered his friend was alive, rather than to have him back and lose him again so soon.

"War changes us all," he replied. "Suppose it had to change you, too. You will write, won't you?" Aramis set a hand over his heart seriously.

"I give you my word. As soon as I know it's safe," he swore. Porthos snatched at the last fragments of hope.

"Maybe we can come visit you and Adelina," he suggested. Aramis's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'd love that," he whispered.

"Yeah, me too," and then they were hugging tightly, pressed chest to chest as they always had. Heart to heart. "You need us?" Porthos choked into Aramis's ear, viciously. "Then don't hesitate. I don't care what dangers might befall us. You come home, or you let us know, got it? I'll be there in a heartbeat." He pressed a small wooden whistle back into the hands of its rightful owner. "I won't abandon you," Aramis nodded against his neck, took the gift solemnly.

"I know you won't," he breathed. "I _know."_ Then they parted, and he turned to D'Artagnan, flashed a charming smile. "Still angry with me, little brother?" He asked. D'Artagnan stayed silent. Porthos wanted to cuff him upside the head, tell him that he would regret it later if he didn't approach Aramis now.

But he couldn't. He understood the lad's anger. When Aramis had died, it had fallen on D'Artagnan to keep them together, to sustain the feeble chords of their broken hearts with his own strength. Aramis nodded sagely, though his eyes flashed with sorrow. "I understand," he told him. He stepped back, his eyes skimming them affectionately. " _Les Inseperables_ ," he whispered wistfully. " _Les Trois Musketeers._ Good," he nodded, voice choked. "Good."

D'Artagnan seemed to burst at the seams. "Aramis!" he keened, throwing himself at the older man. "You'll miss my Birthday," he accused, from where he hid his face in Aramis's neck. The older man barked a laugh, burying his nose in D'Artagnan's hair.

"I know," he whispered. "Forgive me, _mon ami._ But this way, I can keep you safe," he took D'Artagnan by the shoulders. "This way, you can have a good life with Constance. Many strong, smart children. Will _you_ name your firstborn Aramis?" He inquired.

D'Artagnan snorted. "Whatever you want," he sniffled. Aramis's face crumpled.

"You always were my favorite," he whispered, swiping away a tear. He patted D'Artagnan on the shoulder once, gave him a watery smile, and stepped away. "Gentlemen, I bid you adieu. And Godspeed. We'll see each other again one day. Until then," he extended his hand. "All for one?"

They joined him instantly. "And one for all." A tear ran down Aramis's face. His expression morphed from resignation to despair, and without another word he swiveled on his heel and vanished into the crumbles of a ruined battlefield.


	11. Chapter 11

Adelina was frankly surprised that he hadn't pulled a muscle yet. Legs, last time she checked, weren't meant to be stretched that far when walking. It was as if Rene was attempting to run without giving the appearance of sprinting, desperate to put as much distance between him and that monastery as possible.

Or, actually, she was perfectly sure that was what he was doing.

"Rene," she called, panting a little. She was certainly having to jog to keep up with his long legs. Adelina was not short by any means, but she still hadn't managed to match Rene's leg width yet this week. She could feel the hollowness in her stomach protesting the strenuous movement without proper sustenance. She suddenly regretted giving D'Artagnan all their food.

"We have to keep moving!" Rene called over his shoulder.

"We should talk about this," Adelina insisted.

"I already told you, Adelina, there is nothing to talk about," there was a reason Adelina was hesitant to get married one day. Not only because she didn't favor the idea of becoming some man's property-whether she loved him or no- but because Rene had taught her a few things about the other gender.

Their propensity to bury their problems until emotional death was one.

Adelina groaned and came to a halt. The muscles in her legs burned as she took a moment to lean against a tree, unhooking her water skin from her belt and gulping down a few mouthfuls. She knew eventually Rene would figure out she was no longer behind him and return. A few moments later, she heard a rustling in the bushes ahead and smiled as Rene reappeared.

"Are you _ready?"_ he demanded, impatiently. Adelina sank against the tree she was leaning on, patting the ground beside her. Rene resisted for one minute, two, three… Then with an explosive sigh, he trotted over to her side and sank down, groaning and rubbing his knees.

"We have to keep going. I want to reach Bourbon by sundown," Rene told her, taking a few gulps of his own water. He wasn't fooling her. Adelina could see the way his chest heaved, and a fine sheen of sweat that had begun on his brow.

"We couldn't reach Bourbon by sundown even if we had horses, and you know it," she replied, rolling her eyes. "Now, care to tell me why you're fairly dashing through this forest like we're being pursued?"

Rene's eye twitched fractionally. "We _are_ being pursued."

"Not in the way where you must run, _idiota._ I know you want to put distance between you and the Musketeers, but you can't exhaust us like this," _and you're never going to be able to outrun the pain of leaving them_ , she wanted to add, but didn't. Adelina knew that the truth of their lives was never so easily articulated. Rationale was easier, the logic of being hunted. Indeed, the appeal to reason had Rene relaxing. He exhaled slowly, leaning his head against the tree.

Bit by bit, he sagged until his forehead landed on her shoulder, black curls falling to cover his face. Adelina reached up, squeezed the nape of his neck. "Oh, Rene," she sighed, when his shoulders shook silently. She felt wetness seep into the fabric along his arm and wrapped her arms around him.

"Tell me I did the right thing," Rene pleaded in a voice so small it broke her heart. "Tell me this was the only way to keep them safe," Adelina shrugged, helpless.

"I don't know, _hermano_ ," she admitted. "I know you were right about the dangers we face. Miguel… His men and the others… They have no concept of mercy. They would put a knife in those men's backs without blinking. But," she picked at a loose curl. "I also know that your brothers are strong and kind and would do anything for you. After all this time, I cannot help but feel that you are still letting Rochefort into your head, Rene," she told him honestly. Rene exhaled a shuddering breath before falling silent again.

Adelina rested her cheek against his head, singing softly. After a long pause, Rene looked up. Adelina allowed him to move away. Should anyone see him now, they would never have known that he had just made a heart wrenching sacrifice, much less cried for it. His eyes were dry, serene. The only indication of his struggle was an inconspicuous tenseness in his forehead, but even that could be chalked up to age or exhaustion. He stood.

"We can still catch up to them," Adelina told him, watching his expression intently. He looked so… Torn. So defeated. "I'm sure that not only would they appreciate it, but all of France. The knowledge we've accumulated these past four years is invaluable," Rene raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the sunlight overpowering the mountains in the east.

Suddenly, he tensed. Adelina hopped to her feet instantly, careful not to make noise. After four years, she had learned to understand his body language as well as he had hers. Rene had the instincts of a soldier, but the triggering paranoia of an assassin. Rarely did a sound slip past him unbeknownst.

She didn't speak, only carefully unclipped her pistol and scanned the forest. All she could see were the towering bodies of trees and dense mounds of shrubbery. Nothing moved. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears such was the quiet.

Which was the problem. In a forest, life went unimpeded. And life was never _quiet_ unless endangered. Adelina saw the musket before she heard the explosion of gun powder. She and Rene leapt out of the way, throwing themselves behind the tree without word. The bullet buried itself into the bark.

"How many?" Adelina hissed, as Rene drew his own pistol. They pressed back to back instinctively, a two-bodied wall of determination.

"I only saw two. Sharp shooters. The other must be in the trees. Find him," Adelina nodded, looking up. Rene rounded the tree a second later, engaging their other assailant with a taunting roar.

"C'mon then!"

 _Men. So proud._ Adelina stayed where she was, every sense attuned to the environment around her. She could feel Rene running, his steps producing small vibrations in her feet. She could hear the bounce of bullets and the whish of them in the air. Somewhere farther off, the conflict had frightened the birds. They squawked loudly, fleeing the surrounding trees in a flutter of alarmed feathers. She could smell the clean air suddenly filled with the gun smoke and….

There. A flash of darkness, solid and foreign to the forest. He was sitting in a tree branch across from her, loading his pistol, nimble as a squirrel. She could feel his eyes burrowing into her head and wondered why he hadn't shot her yet.

Probably underestimation. She had observed many people seemed to do that. They concluded that because of her size and gender, she was either of little consequence or no threat at all. Sometimes, it came in handy. Other times, like now, it was just _insulting_. Adelina smiled cruelly; and cocked her pistol. _Doesn't matter,_ she decided. _His mistake._ And fired.

A second later, there was a short scream followed by the smack of tree branches against each other. She cringed when she heard a dull thud as the body landed on the ground like a deer carcass, unmoving. Adelina turned away to see Rene round the tree a moment later. There were splatters of blood coating the front of his shirt. Adelina decided not to ask.

"Those weren't Miguel's men," she told him as he sheathed his sword. "Too stupid. Besides, there were only two of them. Spanish assassins?" She asked.

Rene shook his head. "No," he answered shortly. He held up a small booklet. Adelina snatched it from him, studying the red leather cover. She inhaled sharply, pressing a palm against the smoothness of it reverently.

She didn't understand the language, but she knew a bible when she saw one. "Got that off my target. It's Italian. I'm guessing, therefore," he swiped at a few blood droplets clinging to his clothes. "That these are Italian Mercenaries." Adelina felt a jolt of surprise. She stored the bible away in her blouse, eyebrows arching incredulously.

"What did we do to anger _Italy_?" She demanded. They already had to deal with the Spanish, and now they had to deal with these people, too? _Beautiful,_ she thought. _As if we didn't have enough worries for a lifetime._

Rene trotted over to her kill, knelt so he could press two fingers against his neck. "I doubt we've done anything to anger them personally. Someone is paying them. Spain must have more resources than we thought," he said, briefly closing his eyes in prayer. Adelina watched him, murmuring her own prayers silently. Even though they had been enemies, she hoped that if she faced the same fate, someone might beseech God on her behalf.

"That or there are more French spies than we've met, so they called in reinforcements to deal with everyone," she speculated. Her brother shook his head, lips pulled into a thin line of confusion. He sat back on his haunches, stroking his beard.

"That doesn't make sense. Most of the French spies were in the Spanish court. Too many spies and they all begin reporting the same information, or its easier for them to get caught. The assassins were spread out and have probably escaped to Paris by now. The Spanish wouldn't risk entering the war again for some _spies_. They have their own in our courts anyway, so why….?" Rene's eyes widened, filled with alarm, the rest of his sentence fading. Adelina immediately swiveled around, looking for more attackers.

Only a bird fluttered in the bushes however, chirping angrily. "What is it?" She demanded, turning back to her brother. However, his eyes had glazed over, and without answering he stood and started bounding the other way. Adelina blinked at the spot where he had been.

 _What?_

The last time he had done this, he had been having flashbacks of Alejo. "Rene!" She called, running after him. "Rene, wait!" _Don't do anything stupid._

She found him a moment later kneeling on the ground next to a body. She neared the two men, studying Rene's find cautiously, and gasped when she recognized the mutilated face. "A _cel?"_ She whispered, shocked by the display of cruelty before her.

Acel lay on the ground, one hand clutching spasmodically at Rene's breeches. His blonde hair was encrusted with dirt and blood. One of his eyes was swollen shut, while his face was decorated with thin cuts and gashes, the bluish tinge of deep bruising.

"Aramis," he breathed when he saw Rene crouched beside him, mouth agape.

"Hello, Acel," Rene whispered in reply, hands running over Acel's beaten body frantically, searching for a wound that he could handle. _There were so many…_ Adelina's eyes were stuck to the leaves beneath him, stained a sickly shade of red. She knelt beside Rene, taking Acel's hand into her own. His fingers were crooked beneath her hands, the bones shattered.

"We're here, Acel," she told him, her thumb stroking the broken flesh _. This,_ she thought with a distant sort of horror. _Is the fate of all spies and assassins._ Torture and death. Once, that would have frightened her. But Adelina had been following Rene for too long not to have faced the potential consequences of the life she had chosen.

"The Italians…" Acel gasped.

"We got them," Rene assured him, gently easing Acel's head into his lap. He smoothed away a lock of blonde hair. "It's been a long time, _mon ami._ We're a long way from Spain, aren't we?" Adelina huffed a humorless laugh. The last time they had seen Acel, he had been pretending to be a servant in a Spanish nobleman's home. He had been cheery, intelligent, a man of decency then. He hadn't been like this, beaten and abandoned to die alone in a forest.

Acel's mouth screwed painfully. Blood bubbled on his lips. "N-no," he gasped. "You don't… Understand. They wanted to know… Know… Who killed Alvaro," he whispered. Adelina's blood froze. Her head snapped up to stare at Rene, but he did not look concerned. He only smiled, sadly, and cupped Acel's cheek.

"Whatever you did has no bearing on your honor or bravery, my friend," he assured him. Adelina sighed, wrenching her attention back to the injured man. Now, she knew leaving the Musketeers had been a wise decision. The whole of Spain would be after them now, and she doubted there was escape.

She, too, might die broken and alone on a forest floor.

She glanced at her brother, wondered at what his fate might be, and shuddered. Tears raced down Acel's face. His breath hitched. "I'm s-s-sorry. I-I couldn't take anymore," he stammered.

Rene had an unending predilection for forgiveness. He shushed their wounded comrade gently, eyes limpid with shared suffering. "It's alright, Acel. It doesn't matter," he assured him. Acel shook his head.

"Didn't tell," he whispered. "They don't… Know it was… You," Adelina felt weak with relief. She let out a slow breath, grateful beyond words. Rene's eyes narrowed questionably.

"Who did you say did it then, Acel?" he asked. "Who?" Acel swallowed painfully. His breath rattled in his lungs. Adelina squeezed his hand with utmost tenderness. The man must have been in horrible agony, but he was refusing the gentle song of unconsciousness until he had delivered his last message on behalf of France.

"Needed something to say… To make it stop," he repeated, ashamed. Then, "I-I s-said… That it was…. The Musketeers," the word echoed in Adelina's ears, pulsing like the sudden shriek of blood in her veins. He had done _what?_

Then her gaze went to Rene. All blood had drained from his face. _This is bad._ "What?" He hissed, reaching down to snatch Acel's tattered shirt collar. He dragged him close, eyes flashing dangerously. Acel whimpered. " _What?!_ Why? Acel, they had nothing to do with it! How could you…?"

Acel's hands scrabbled at Rene's hands desperately. "Needed… An end. Needed to get… them off… Your trail," he struggled to explain.

Rene shook him violently. Acel cried out. Adelina inhaled sharply at the sound, clutched Rene's wrist. "Every Spanish and Italian assassin will be going after men who didn't even know that I was alive! They'll be in terrible danger, you lying buffoon! How could you do that?!" Adelina dug her hands into his arms hard enough to draw blood.

"Rene, stop! Can't you see he's in enough pain?!" she screamed. Rene growled angrily, shoving Acel into her arms and standing. Adelina did not take the time to watch him walk away. She smoothed Acel's brow, tenderly.

"Acel, listen to me," one eye swiveled to hers, frightened and ashamed. "You did good. Thank you for telling us. You can rest now, alright? We'll handle it," she gave him a smile, hoped it would reassure him. "You rest now," Acel's breath stuttered.

"S-s-sorry," he whispered.

"Don't be. You've been strong. Go with God, my friend," and then, with a last shuddering breath, he went limp. His tired muscles went lax, and Adelina watched as one eye shut, the light having dimmed from existence. She choked out a silent prayer more fervent than she had performed in a while.

Tenderly, Adelina eased him from her lap warily, shoving away memories of her father in her arms, his heavy body cooling at her fingertips.

Her brother was pacing, Acel's death unimportant to him. "Rene…"

He snapped to a halt, spine straightening. "I have to go after them." Adelina's heart skipped a beat. Was he insane?

"Why?" She snapped. "Is that your new mission now? Another order to follow?"

He glared at her savagely. Adelina crossed her arms, refusing to back down from his angry stare. "What are you talking about?!"

She gestured to Acel, wildly. "Do you see him? He's _dead,_ Rene. Tortured to death. Miguel is still out there, and now he and every Spanish and Italian assassin is going to Paris. What's your plan, to meet them there? How is that protecting your brothers!? We're more liable to end up like Acel!" Rene threw his hands up in exasperation.

"You're the one who wanted me to go with them in the first place! Now, you're changing your mind because the Italians are involved?" He demanded, voice high with indignant ire. Adelina resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child.

"No, I'm changing my mind because now the Musketeers are wanted too. What good will it be to have two wanted parties in the same place?" She snapped.

"There's strength in numbers."

"There's _stupidity_ in numbers. The Musketeers can handle themselves…" He stepped closer, towering over her as if his physical size would be enough to intimidate her. Adelina set her mouth into a grim line, unimpressed.

"They don't even know they're being hunted! I must go after them. I must. They're my brothers. They need me." Adelina could have torn out her hair. How could she get through to him, make him see the illogic of his idea? To understand that if he went to Paris, it was inevitable that he ended up like Acel?

Her heart ached at the very idea of life without him. _I need you._

"They've always needed you, _hermano._ They always will, but now it's too dangerous to be with them. Too dangerous for you and me to be anywhere _near_ Paris, where every other assassin is going. Or, did you not think of that? Is this just another mission to you!?" Rene looked ready to strike her. If Adelina did not know him as well as she did, she might fear he would. Nevertheless, his next words cut into her worse than any slap or kick.

"I never knew you were such a selfish coward!"

She inhaled sharply, fury creeping up her throat and spewing out like an exploding volcano. "I never knew you were such an indecisive moron!" She yelled.

Rene's face blazed red. His fists clenched at his side, momentarily, before he swiveled on his heels, exposing her face to his back. "Go to England then," he snarled. "I'm going after them. You don't have to come," Adelina grabbed Rene's arm in a grip that made her own fingers burn with pain, jerking until he turned to face her fully.

Some people might underestimate her, but she wouldn't allow it from him. Not _this_ man. His dark eyes sparked at her, lit fuses ready to explode.

"You listen to me," she commanded. Her voice sounded foreign in her own ears, full of a dark pain she rarely let bubble to the surface. "You listen right now. I am not some mistress you get to love for a moment and then leave behind, do you hear me? I am _not_ a sacrifice you get to make. I _am your sister!_ Wherever you go, I'm coming with you. So, you'd damn well better be sure about this Aramis, because I'm not going to let you run head first into the lion's den if it's only going to get everyone killed!"

They glared at one another. Adelina's chest heaved, her heart clamoring to escape her throat. Rene's body stiff with impatience and hurt. Then, he softened. "I don't deserve your loyalty," he murmured. Adelina had to agree with him there, but before she could, a familiar shriek pierced the air. She gasped, jumped. Rene pulled her close, but the gunshot had been too far away to be aimed at them.

That's when they heard the explosion.

It was followed by the wild scream of panicked horses, and shouts of alarm. One roar echoed off the hills. "D'ARTAGNAN!" Adelina heard Rene's heart stop in his chest. She leapt toward the sound a split second after he did. They hurled themselves through the forest like wild creatures, hearts in their throats, ignorant of anything but the sounds of a massacre in the making.

* * *

There was a pact they had made two years prior.

It had been Treveille's idea, and Athos partially hated him for it. He would have ignored the seasoned advice of his elder if not for D'Artagnan and Porthos forcing him to swear it upon his honor, and then, knowing that he would break that vow in a second, swear it on _their_ lives.

Since then, it had sat in the back of his mind like a fungus, clinging to his conscience and sense of dread. One day, he knew, he would have to follow Treveille's guidance. He hated it, feared it, loved them for it, but most of all, he wished he had never made the vow.

 _"If we go down. If we're captured, if anything happens to us,"_ D'Artagnan had said. _"And there's no other recourse, leave, Athos. You must swear to us you'll save yourself."_

Next to him, Athos flinched away as a stray bullet whipped past his ear. He heard it ringing, snatching a few strands of his long hair as it flew through the air. A second later, he heard a short cry of pain and swiveled in his seat to see Pierre tumble from his horse, holding a bleeding shoulder.

His horse screamed, reared on its hind legs. Athos inhaled sharply, about to call a warning, but Pierre had seen. He rolled from beneath the animal's hooves quickly, springing to his feet and drawing a sword with his uninjured arm. Athos was reminded why he was honored to have been placed as Captain of these men, brave and unstoppable.

Their bravery could not save them now. They were outnumbered ten to two, the scant members of the regiment surrounded by armed men. Athos didn't even know where they had come from, or why they had chosen to attack the King's elite guard when the war was supposed to be over.

 _"You're the Captain of the Musketeers now_ _. There's more at stake than our lives. No matter what, you must live,"_ Porthos had agreed, eyes sincere in the light. Despite the gulf that Aramis's death had left between them, Porthos had never ceased looking after him.

The words echoed in his mind as he fought his way across the battlefield. His horse grunted angrily as a bullet caught its knee. Athos jumped from the saddle a second before his horse instinctively buckled, lying on the ground in a blind panic.

Athos reached over, patted its mane. But he could not afford to comfort his stead now. D'Artagnan lay several yards away, face first on the ground, one arm outstretched, fingers shakily reaching for the sword just out of his grasp. His dead horse lay over the lower half of his body, an unmovable weight.

The only reason D'Artagnan was alive was because Porthos had seen the bomb and shouted a warning. Then, the older man had sequestered their youngest behind him as they were surrounded, but there were too many even for Porthos's great skill and strength. Athos had to reach them.

The other twenty of his regiment surrounded them. Some dead, killed in the explosion. Others were wounded, crying out on the ground as they were trampled by those still fighting. After five years of war, Athos was used to this image, but it never made it any easier to bear. Nor did it help that now, he knew their chances were slim to none.

D'Artagnan looked up, noticed Athos running at him. "Athos, go!" He commanded hoarsely. He pointed at the forest, where sharpshooters sat in the trees, picking them off one by one. "Get yourself out of here!"

 _"You must swear to us you'll save yourself."_

Athos swiveled, met swords with a Spaniard behind him. He was shocked at the skill his blade met. The other man met him blow for blow, parrying his attack with the skill of an experienced swordsman.

Athos's mind span as he struggled to gain an advantage. He couldn't leave them. He just couldn't. Then Porthos was there, tackling the other swordsman to the ground. "Go, Athos!" He shouted over his shoulder as he tumbled to the ground, narrowly avoiding being beheaded. "We'll cover you!"

" _There's more at stake than our lives. No matter what, you must live."_

But without them, he wasn't sure he would be living. He might be able to walk and talk and breathe, but he wouldn't be alive. He couldn't lose more brothers, not like he had lost Aramis and Thomas. It would destroy him. Athos inhaled sharply, snatching at fragments of courage.

"This isn't over yet!" _Let me die with you._

He slid to his knees beside D'Artagnan, snatching his sword and shoving it into his reaching hands. Then, Athos heaved his entire body weight against the dead horse atop his brother, teeth gritted. D'Artagnan swiped at his knee. "My leg is probably broken, you ass," D'Artagnan gasped. "It doesn't matter. Get out of here! You _swore,_ Athos!"

 _I can't._ "I didn't actually mean it!" He admitted. D'Artagnan didn't look half as afraid as a dying man should. His deep brown eyes flashed with steely determination.

"Well, you do now! GO!"

"No!" Athos shook his head, choking on dread. "I can't do this without you."

D'Artagnan's eyes blazed. "You're going to have too. Go, _Captain,"_ He emphasized the title, and Athos suddenly felt as burdened as he had as a Comte. Responsible for lives and land he wanted no control over.

 _"You're the Captain of the Musketeers now."_

Athos's muscles in his legs and chest trembled as he pushed his shoulder against the horse. It was too heavy. Suddenly, D'Artagnan's eyes widened, and he grabbed Athos's arm in a bruising grip, pointing behind him. "Athos, look out!" Athos spun around a second too late. He could already feel a rough hand yanking his own sword from its scabbard, placing it at the junction where throat and chest met.

Athos looked up, met chocolate eyes full of menace. There was something almost familiar about them, but Athos supposed at some point every Spaniard would look alike. "I wouldn't move if I were you, Captain," the man said, with utmost politeness. D'Artagnan's hand squeezed his own, a thread of fear sparking between them. "Halt, Musketeers!" The man whose sword was digging into his skin hollered. "I have your Captain! You want him to live, then lay down your weapons!"

Athos, to his shame, felt a surge of relief when the remaining Musketeers looked up, paled at the sight of him endangered, and promptly dropped their arms. _At least I can die with them._ Porthos's eyes dug into the Spaniard's head as he raised his arms nonthreateningly, gaze snapping between Athos and D'Artagnan.

"Who are you?" He barked.

The Spaniard didn't so much as glance his way. He studied Athos, curiously. "Doesn't matter," he grunted after a moment of curious examination. "Your deaths will be…"

He was interrupted by a sudden shriek. All eyes swiveled in time to notice one of the sharpshooters fall from his post, limp as a sack of potatoes. He landed with a sickening thud face down, a dagger sticking out of his back.

A second later, the leaves rustled. Three more men dropped from their posts, and now there were… _Arrows_ jutting from their spines? The Spanish soldiers jumped, raising their pistols toward the trees, but there was nothing there. Athos looked down at D'Artagnan, who shook his head slightly. He had no idea either.

"Well, well," The Spaniard chuckled, motioning for Athos to stand. He did so, warily, ever aware of the sword tip at his neck. "It seems you have a guardian angel, my friends. Wonder who that could be?!" he raised his voice, addressing the still forest.

"I would like to know too," Athos murmured, searching the canopy above.

"I want the living shackled," the leader ordered. "Shoot the wounded."

At those words, Athos's eyes met D'Artagnan, reciprocal horror registering in their gaze. Athos lunged forward, kept back only by the sword digging into the skin of his neck. "No!" He cried as the soldiers started moving, doing as they were told. He saw Porthos surrounded, cuffs snapped around his wrists, a pistol placed at his temple.

The man who had done so promptly dropped, a bullet whizzing out of his chest and hitting another who had been about to stab Pierre, wounded on the ground. Athos inhaled sharply. The leader laughed. "Only one man could have made that shot! Protective today, aren't you? Come out, Rene!"

 _Aramis._

Athos's relief doubled, followed shortly by fear. _You're outnumbered, you idiot,_ he thought. _Don't do this._

"You can't hide from me," the last sharpshooter turned, fired wildly in the direction of the song, but his bullets bounced harmlessly off the wood of the trees. Then, he screamed as another dagger landed in the back of his head. He dropped limply.

The voice, echoing melodically, started again. "I stalk you in your dreams."

"Miguel…?" One of the Spaniards gulped.

The man reached forward, grabbed Athos's arm and drew him close, the sword still at his throat. "We hear you, Sombra! Won't you come play?" He inquired. Athos could feel him smiling against his right ear.

"So, you're Miguel," he remarked, backing away. The Spaniards looked to be shaking in their boots, watching the forest quietly as a piercing whistle sounded, in the same tone as the song.

"I can feel you trembling. Your fear won't save you from me," the man creeping toward D'Artagnan dropped.

"Miguel, where are they!?"

"In the forest, you fools! No one move… No, no!" Suddenly, one of the Spaniards, eyes swiveling frantically, dashed toward the forest. He made it perhaps three steps into the undergrowth before screaming. Athos heard a sickening snap of a bone being broken, and then the man collapsed, screaming in agony. Miguel sighed. "The forest is booby-trapped," he finished.

"I am in the night. I am in the day. I don't ever fade away. You can't hide from me," Adelina suddenly materialized, breaking from the shadows of the trees like a panther, a musket thrown casually over her shoulder. She smiled at them. Athos watched, astonished, as the Spanish soldiers shied away as if she were the devil, allowing her to stroll past.

She came to a stop in front of them, flashed Athos a conspiratorial wink, and regarded Miguel. "Rene says he'll give you one chance, Miguel," she informed him, matter of fact. "Let the Musketeers go and leave. It's that simple," Athos arched his brows. Since when did Aramis partake in _negotiation?_

Miguel pressed the blade closer to his throat, and Athos recalled his imminent danger. "We both know you won't shoot me, Rene!" he called out. _And why not?_ Athos wondered, disliking the cold confidence in his adversary's voice.

"The one you're holding is named Athos," Adelina continued, casually. "That's Porthos," she pointed. "And D'Artagnan. Should you harm them, not only will he shoot you, we will _gut_ you like the deluded pig you are!" She chuckled, as if her threat were as amusing as a well-received joke. The Spanish soldiers took a few more steps away. "Tread carefully, Miguel."

"Ah, so _these_ are the Musketeers he's so fond of?" Miguel's blade inched ever closer. Athos held his breath. "I was wondering why you two showed up. Well, _senorita,_ you know how it is. Orders are orders. The Musketeers killed Alvaro," Miguel's voice darkened. "I kill them."

"You know they did no such thing, Miguel!" And there was Aramis, leaning against a tree across from them. A long stalk of grass stuck from his mouth, his hat pulled low over his face. Was he chewing on that grass?

"Aramis?" Pierre croaked, eyes wide. His head swiveled around, along with the other Musketeers who had known their friend. "Is that _Aramis?"_

"The Musketeers have been fighting on the front lines," Aramis continued, pushing himself upright. He peered at Miguel, stoically. "They didn't kill your brother. You know who did, and as I recall, you and I have a strict policy against making things _personal,"_ he hissed.

"Aramis!" D'Artagnan warned as Miguel nicked Athos's skin with his blade, making him tense.

"You made things personal when you killed Alvaro!" Miguel growled. "It's your turn to lose a brother, Rene. Your turn to suffer loss," Athos didn't like the sound of that.

Aramis didn't look perturbed. He tapped the grass stalk in his mouth knowingly, a friendly smile planted on his face. "You're outmatched," he pointed out.

"You're outnumbered."

Aramis snorted. "You're in _denial_ ," he countered. Miguel stiffened, his blade trembling in his hand. Athos stared at Aramis. He sincerely hoped he knew what he was doing. He didn't particularly want to die today.

Then, the blade went slack. Athos was so shocked he staggered to his knees when Miguel shoved him from behind. Porthos was at his side at once, leaning over him protectively, never taking his eyes from Miguel.

Adelina put away her pistol. "We'll meet in Paris, I presume?" Miguel continued, throwing Athos's blade to the ground. He jerked his head toward the forest, and his soldiers promptly followed the unspoken command, carefully making their way through the underbrush. Aramis shrugged.

"Maybe."

Miguel's answering bow was both mocking and gentlemanly. "I'll take that as a yes. It's a reunion then!" he decided. Aramis seemed uneasily amused by his antics, returning the gesture silently. Miguel turned on one heel and vanished into the forest as stealthily as Adelina and Aramis had appeared.

"Never ceases to confuse, does he?" Porthos muttered from above him, settling a hand on Athos's shoulder. "You alright?" Athos reached up to touch the blood on his throat wonderingly.

"I am," he answered. Aramis trotted their way, snatching a piece of fabric from his shirt and handing it to Athos, his eyes skimming over them both frantically.

"I was afraid we wouldn't make it in time. Everyone alright? In one piece?" He addressed the question to the general assembly, most of whom were still staring at him as if he were a ghost. Aramis hardly noticed. He let Porthos haul him to his feet before skidding to his knees beside D'Artagnan. Adelina was already there, one hand on his back.

"Can you feel your legs?" She was asking.

"Why'd… We let him go?" D'Artagnan growled breathlessly. "Why'd he even attack us?"

"He seems to think that _we_ killed the Spanish Minister," Athos announced, studying Aramis's expression. It was only a mixture of relief sprinkled with guilt.

"It's a long story," their friend groaned.

"What did he mean when he said you two have a policy?" Porthos added.

"Can we get D'Artagnan free of his dead horse before you interrogate me, please?" Aramis snapped. Athos shook himself free of his anxiety, nodding.

"No, no, continue. I'm perfectly comfortable," D'Artagnan wheezed.

Porthos lightly cuffed him on the back of the head. "Shut it, whelp. Aramis, you and Athos help me push, Adelina, get him from under there. Ready? One… Two… Three!" Athos cringed when D'Artagnan yelled as they pushed. With agonizing slowness, the horse eventually moved, inch by inch upward.

"A little more… A little bit _more_ …" Adelina said, her hands beneath D'Artagnan's arm as she helped haul him from beneath the horse. After what felt like centuries, the horse had been rolled unceremoniously to the side. D'Artagnan collapsed to the ground, gasping. Aramis knelt by his legs, gently prodding. Adelina squeezed D'Artagnan's shoulder.

"Easy, my friend," she told him.

Athos peered over Aramis's shoulder. "Well?"

"Is it broken?" D'Artagnan wheezed.

"No. You're a lucky man, D'Artagnan," Aramis said after a moment. "You knee is badly twisted, and I suspect it hurts like Hell," D'Artagnan grunted affirmation.

"However, that's all. A few days off your feet and it should be fine. I'd feared it was much worse," Athos let out a breath he had not been aware he had been holding. He gripped D'Artagnan's hand tightly in his own as Aramis began bandaging his twisted knee with the help of Porthos.

"Your timing was impeccable," he breathed, trying to get D'Artagnan's mind off the pain of having his injured knee prodded and moved. "How did you know we were attacked?"

"Heard the explosion," Aramis grunted. Adelina glared at him.

"Right as me and Rene here were in the middle of an argument about the _perils of being in Paris_ ," she harrumphed.

Aramis sighed, tying off D'Artagnan's knee with a flourish. He patted the leg fondly and offered his hand. D'Artagnan waved him away, Porthos and Athos moving in to help him instead. Aramis's face momentarily crumpled, but he soon recovered. "Aramis?" Now he turned to face the others, smiling sadly when Eustace reached out, touched his shoulder warily.

"Hello, Eustace," he said. Some of the others who were not helping the wounded to their feet also crowded around the marksman, encircling him with disbelief. Athos watched the small parade, smiling sadly.

"You're here? You're alive!?"

"Where've you been, Aramis?"

"Athos, did you know about this?"

"Is it true? Is this a trick?"

"The others," Eustace broke in. "The other Musketeers who Rochefort sent away… Are they alive too? Jean-Paul?" Athos exhaled a slow breath. He had been given the life of his brothers today, but he had forgotten that Eustace and Jean-Paul had been as close as Aramis and Porthos. Aramis's face crumpled.

"Oh, my friend," he set a hand on Eustace's shoulder. "Forgive me. I doubt it. I've had no contact with anyone but thieves for years." Adelina cleared her throat. "And a friend, but not our brothers. I fear I am the only one left," Athos feared the same thing. Porthos stepped forward, gently moved aside the curious gazes of their friends.

"C'mon now, give him some space! Go collect some wood for litters. We don't have enough horses for everyone. We need to get back to Paris now," Porthos glanced at Aramis. "That is, if there aren't any more booby traps lying about?" Aramis exchanged a look with Adelina. She shrugged and strode forward.

"Follow me," she called over her shoulder. Eustace looked to Porthos, who nodded. Reluctantly, the others warily obeyed Adelina's summons, trailing her into the forest. They each knew that whatever Porthos or D'Artagnan said carried the weight of Athos's mandate as well. Aramis started after them. Athos grabbed his arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" He demanded.

"To help the wounded, of course," Aramis replied, innocently. D'Artagnan wobbled where he stood, gipping Athos's shoulder like a lifeline.

"I think we deserve some answers," he pointed out.

"A lot of them," Porthos agreed, joining their circle. "But there's only one that I need right now. Does this mean you're coming home with us?" Aramis hesitated, his dark eyes flashing with something akin to fear. He looked away. Athos's heart thundered in his ears as they waited.

After a moment, Aramis looked up and gave them a wobbly smile. "Yes."

Athos could have jumped with joy. As it was, D'Artagnan tried, whooping happily as he bounced on his uninjured leg. Three sets of hands reached out to steady him when he nearly toppled over. Porthos laughed triumphantly, grabbing Aramis and dragging him close for a hug.

"Knew you couldn't leave us!" he crowed.

Aramis stumbled backward, laughing dizzily, when he was released. Athos caught him with a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome back, brother," he breathed. Aramis's responding smile made something in Athos's chest loosen. "Let's go home."


	12. Chapter 12

It took them four days to each Paris. In that time, Adelina had not spoken to him beyond a few words about how they should protect or transport the Musketeers once in Paris. He knew she was still irritated by his sudden and dangerous decision, though she had already established herself as a valuable member of the team. She would forgive him soon enough. She always did.

In that time, Aramis had also changed his mind about two hundred times, arguing with himself deep into the night.

 _This is stupid._

 _I shouldn't be doing this._

 _What if Miguel hurts them to get to me?_

Somehow, he suspected his brothers knew what he was thinking. One of them was always close at hand. Athos frequently asked for his input, from protecting the Louvre and Garrison from assassins to rooting out spies, making Aramis's heart twist with pride at all Athos had learned while his mind also spun from the range of ideas.

Porthos rarely stopped talking when they were together, filling the silence with nostalgia as they reminisced together. D'Artagnan, as they got closer, had yet to stop his endless chatter about Constance. He also insisted that only Aramis dress his wounds, as if the others had not become perfectly adept in the five years of war.

In some ways, their constant vigilance was touching. On the other hand, it was also… Strange. Aggravating, at times. Aramis was used to having one source of companionship-Adelina. And though he wouldn't trade his time with her for the world, he had to admit his dependence on her was absolute and _different_. This new bombardment of company made him a bit irritable as he reacquainted himself to being part of a _brotherhood_ again.

Likewise, he could see the others were similarly at a crossroads. Porthos seemed to tire of him after a few hours, his stories turning to snapping as he recalled that Aramis had been about to leave them. D'Artagnan sometimes grew aloof, preferring Athos and Porthos to Aramis, and Athos… Well, he was still Athos.

But the tension that had existed between them since Aramis's night with Anne had metamorphized into awkwardness. They both harbored guilt for the other's suffering, and Aramis felt as if every conversation was in part an apology, both trying but not quite succeeding at resolving the conflict.

Despite that, Aramis could not deny how right it felt to be among them again, how much he felt like _Aramis_. Unlike Adelina, his brothers had refused to call him by his Christian name, ignoring his requests flatly and continuing with their version of him. It was refreshing, and terrifying.

Kind of like seeing Paris again. Aramis shielded his eyes as the dawning sun shifted over the city spires. "Treveille will be so happy to see you," D'Artagnan said from atop Athos's horse. The Captain had insisted he ride so long as the journey lasted, to spare his knee further harm.

 _Or, he'll want to strangle me_ , Aramis thought. He had technically known Treveille longer than the others, having been commissioned at the very beginning of the Musketeer's formation. For that reason, he and the Captain had always had a…. Special relationship. He predicted that relationship would be gone when he arrived, tattered by secrets, stress and Rochefort's deception.

D'Artagnan's excitement was contagious however, so Aramis smiled and patted his uninjured leg. "Maybe," he granted.

Adelina ventured to his side, studying the city curiously. "That's Paris?" She asked. Porthos appeared over their shoulder, munching on leftover jerky.

"In all its glory. What'd you think, Mi'lady Sombra?" Porthos asked. He persistently called her that, and though Adelina pretended to be irritated by the title, Aramis knew she secretly loved it. She and Porthos got along well, to his delight.

"It looks dirty," Adelina harrumphed. Aramis chuckled softly.

"You aren't wrong," he supposed.

"Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go!" D'Artagnan cried, urging his horse forward eagerly.

"D'Artagnan, if you slip off that horse, you'll be cleaning the stables for weeks and I don't care if you're injured," Athos warned him. Porthos guffawed as the others chuckled. Aramis was surprised when a genuine grin of humor split Athos's face. Sarcasm and irony, he was used too, but had Athos actually made an _honest_ joke?

 _So much has changed,_ Aramis thought.

"I was raised with horses you know," D'Artagnan reminded them, as they followed the younger man towards the city. Aramis saw Adelina inconspicuously shift her pistol into one hand. He caught her eye and nodded approval. There would be assassins in the city when they arrived, better to be prepared. He snatched the grass from his pocket and began chewing, hoping the habitual rhythm would soothe his nerves. His heart was thudding in his chest.

It had been so long. Aramis had visited hundreds of outlandish and perilous cities in his time away. Some, he had entered with weariness or trepidation, most with irritational excitement. However, this place-once his home- looked daunting to him now, a fortress of lies.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Dazedly, he realized had fallen behind, a lone stranger watching his fellow sojourners have their glorious return. Adelina was up front. She would protect them, he had no doubt.

Aramis looked over and met Athos's eyes. The other man was studying him intently. "Are you alright?" he asked. Aramis nodded and glanced at the city.

"Fine. Just… When I first saw you three, it felt as if five years had passed in a moment. Like it had all been a terrible nightmare. Now, it feels as if it's been a lifetime, and," Aramis shuddered. "The nightmare is just beginning."

Athos did not offer plaintive comfort, as Porthos might have. Nor did he try to rationalize Aramis's feelings as D'Artagnan and Adelina would have. He nodded and let his hand drop from Aramis's shoulder. He immediately missed the warmth. "I know the feeling," he said. Aramis's head whipped around to face him.

Athos did not meet his gaze, only stared ahead at the outline of their friends as they approached the city boundaries. "When Anne murdered my brother, I felt that way staring at Paris," Athos began softly. "I thought that when she hung, and justice had been served, that I would find peace. But I only found more reasons to drink, and when I came to Paris, I thought the rest of my life would be the continuation of that nightmare," a small smile quirked the edges of his mouth.

"Then I met you and Porthos. A nightmare to be sure, but of a different kind," Aramis chuckled softly.

"You weren't exactly a dream come true either, my friend," he teased.

"I know," Athos snorted, unrepentant. "But Aramis, you and Porthos didn't save me because you made my demons go away. You probably gave me _more_ demons, to think of it. You saved me because you never let me face them alone," and now Athos looked at him, with striking eyes that had a softness- a vulnerability- that struck a chord in Aramis's soul. Where war hardened some men, it seemed to have stripped Athos of his emotional barriers. Made him more pliable to love.

"You aren't alone, Aramis," he smiled back, tremulously.

"I know. But I've already survived two massacres, Athos. If I have to survive another, I'd… I'd rather not," Athos clapped him on the shoulder, his hand lingering a moment longer than was necessary.

"Well, then we'd better catch up with the others and save them from themselves, now shouldn't we?" He suggested smoothly. Aramis nodded, and then scowled when Athos snatched the stalk from his mouth.

"Hey!"

"You're not a cow," Athos scolded him. "Stop chewing on this damned plant." He chucked it to the ground with disgust. Aramis felt amusement curl inside him.

"It calms me down!" He whined.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I have a bottle of brandy that'll do a better job."

"Can I use a grass stalk as a _straw,_ perhaps?"

Athos shoved him toward the city, his scowl twitching upwards a bit. " _Go,_ Aramis. We must report to the Minister first," He commanded. Aramis went, laughing.

"Alright, alright! Whatever you say, Captain."

* * *

The Louvre rose like a tidal wave of white walls around him, momentarily stunning the breath from his lungs. Once, this palace had been a daily sight for him. He knew all the secret passageways and alleys, the spots in the gardens where the servants went to make love. The Louvre had never been home like the Garrison had been, but it had never been strange to him either.

Now, he felt as if he couldn't breathe staring at its splendor.

"Well, _hermano,"_ Adelina supposed, from next to him, her wide eyes taking in the graceful archways and the fancily dressed Lords and Ladies who strolled past. Evidently, _fashion_ had also changed in the time that Aramis had been away.

"You stories never quite managed to convey all this," probably because he had forgotten most of it. He tended to remember people, not places. Aramis shrugged, ducking as a floating pot of blooming flowers came into view.

"Take him to the Garrison," Athos told Pierre, pointing at D'Artagnan, who likewise looked a bit stunned to see The Louvre again. "You need to rest. See Constance," Aramis had expected D'Artagnan to argue, but the name of his wife probably stilled his tongue. He nodded, hanging unto the horse tightly. Then, he smiled down at Aramis, offering a hand. Aramis clapped his palm around the other's elbow; a warrior's grip.

"You'll come over tonight, won't you?" D'Artagnan asked. "I'm sure Constance would love to see you," Aramis grinned. He was looking forward to seeing Constance as well, though he suspected his face would immediately feel the pain of her retribution upon entering the house.

"Of course. Tell her to keep an eye on things until I get over there. I predict the city is already rife with assassins," he advised him. D'Artagnan nodded grimly and spurred his horse back toward the Garrison, following the other wounded members of their party. Porthos and Athos watched them for another moment before swiveling on their heels, conversing quietly as they made their way into the palace.

Aramis waited until both parties were out of earshot to grab Adelina's arm and steer her to the side. Adelina stared at him expectantly. "Remember: Spanish is probably not welcome here. Speak French at all times," Aramis cautioned her. "Keep your eyes open. You know what to do if something happens," he pressed the wooden whistle into her grasp, suddenly grateful that Porthos had forced him to keep it. The small object had become a necessary part of his and Adelina's communication system.

She nodded, stowing the whistle away in a pocket. "When will you be there?" She wondered.

"Shortly. I must warn the Minister of the assassins no doubt flooding Paris. Then I'll be there. Lock down the Garrison, acquaint yourself with who goes in and out," Adelina's eyes clouded with worry.

"That would be easier if we had help," she suggested.

Aramis exhaled a slow breath. He could not deny that she had a point. Not only would it be easier, it would be infinitely safer for everyone involved. "The other Musketeers have no clue the danger they're in yet. Besides, they're soldiers, not spies. I'll ask Treveille about recruiting some of our old allies," he promised.

A cynical turn of the lips. "If they're still alive," her uncertainty was dually noted. Aramis released her arm and took a step back.

"Exactly," he chirped, then lowered his voice further. "I know you aren't happy to be here; but know that I am- _as always-_ in your debt, sister," he told her seriously. Adelina stared at him for a long moment, deep chocolate eyes solemn and broken in the light. She jerked a thumb inside the palace.

"Does it give you some peace, being with them again?" She asked.

Aramis smiled shyly. "It isn't easy, but for the first time in five years, I feel… Like a man, instead of a monster," he admitted. Adelina nodded, patting him on the chest affectionately.

"Then I couldn't be happier," she decided. Without waiting for him to respond, she turned away and trotted into the mid-day crowd assembling in the courtyard. It took only a second for her to vanish, blending into the masses with the gracefulness of a dancer. Aramis chuckled and sent up a quick prayer of thanks to have found such a loyal friend.

He turned around and made his way into the castle, stopping when he noticed Athos and Porthos waiting inside the door, both with identical expressions of nervousness and curiosity. "Oh," Porthos breathed when he saw him. "Thought you'd slipped off again," the plaintive relief in his voice made Aramis cringe.

"Who would watch over you two then?" He quipped, smiling reassuringly.

Athos peered over his shoulder. "Where's your shadow?" He wondered.

Aramis shrugged. "Trailing D'Artagnan to the Garrison. I put her as sentinel. Every moment we waste is a moment for our enemies to plan their attack. Speaking of which," he continued before anyone could open their mouth to ask _more questions_. "Shall we? I admit I've little clue where Treveille's office is," he smiled sheepishly.

Porthos snorted. "Some spy you are," he harrumphed as Athos led the way.

"French _assassin,"_ Aramis corrected him, trying not to pay attention to the portraits of the Royal family on the walls. Sparkling blue eyes peered down at him, making his skin crawl with longing.

Anne. His son.

He'd nearly forgotten that they were here, in the fanciful palace full of strange people. The walls suddenly felt like a barricade, stones of whiteness preventing him from ever attaining his rightful title as _theirs._ It made his heart twist. "I suppose this goes without saying," Athos began quietly, as they slowly traversed the halls. "But it'd be better for all involved if you stayed _away_ from the Royal family," Aramis felt his stomach clench painfully.

"Have you seen either of them yet? Are they…?" He began.

Porthos set a hand on his shoulder, a warning more than comfort. Athos did not turn around. "Forget them, Aramis." It was the same advice he had offered five years ago, when Aramis's soul had been wilting beneath the knowledge that another man raised his child. Was able to sleep beside the woman he loved.

It was penance for his recklessness, he knew, but it still… Aramis's shoulders sagged in defeat. "Rochefort said the same," he whispered. "About you three." Porthos squeezed his shoulder.

"Rochefort is dead. I was part of the firing squad myself," he told him, in a voice dripping with hatred. Athos turned another corner, and at the end Aramis could see the seal of the First Minister carved into the doors. Two guards stood at attention, watching them approach warily. "You've gotta focus now," yes, yes.

Focus on the mission.

"We're here to see the First Minister," Athos told the guards.

"Who're you?" One of them grunted, stepping in front of the door. Aramis arched his brows, indignant.

"That's Athos," he snapped angrily, one hand on his sword. "The _Captain_ of the Musketeers," Athos glanced at him, amused by the threat in his voice. Porthos snickered beside him.

"The Minister will be expecting us," Athos told the guards calmly, who exchanged an uneasy glance before nodding.

"He said to expect you. Go in," Aramis couldn't help the sharp stare he gave both guards as they passed through the door, searching their faces for signs of exhaustion, discomfort, boredom. All indications that they were acting at a role. Spies, in truth, were merely very well-versed actors. All actors had ticks and tricks. Find the tick, find the actor.

"I've missed seein you glare at people," Porthos teased him as the doors closed behind them. Aramis said nothing, only allowed his eyes to scan the immediate vicinity.

The room was large. To the left behind a portrait of the Royal family- was that his _son?_ No. The mission. The mission- was a hidden entrance. Aramis could see the faint outline of a door painted into the wall. That was good to note.

Treveille kept a pistol beneath his desk. Aramis could hear it scratching against the leather of the holster. There was a trip wire under the pistol. Aramis's eyes scanned the room, wondering what might happen if that were to be triggered. He smiled as he caught sight of a small notch above the painting. It was just large enough for cross bows…. The shelves behind them also contained fresh swords, freshly sharpened. Good. It appeared as if the First Minister was prepared for an attack by assassins.

Treveille himself was missing however.

"Minister!?" Athos called.

"Why didn't the guards tell us he wasn't in here?" Porthos demanded. Aramis crept alongside the far wall, pressing his ear against the crack he could see. He tapped once, twice, against the secret entrance. The echoes of his tapping came back after a moment. Aramis nodded, repeated the action. Only one person, then.

"He's in the walls," Aramis reported, turning to see Athos and Porthos staring at him as if he were insane.

"What?" Athos asked.

Aramis smiled at their clear befuddlement. "There's a secret entrance right here. Probably for council meetings. He's in there. He should be out in a minute," he had been close to the door when Aramis tapped.

"How did you know that?" Athos inquired, eyes lighting up as he came to Aramis's side and noticed the slit of light coming from the wall.

"Classic trick of the paranoid. I'm glad to see the Captain is prepared for anything that might…"

"Aramis?" Though he had been expecting it, the voice still made his heart tremble until the awareness of Treveille's presence vibrated in his toes.

Aramis turned slowly and came face to face with one of his oldest friends. Treveille's eyes were wide as he stared at him from the open doorway. Aramis gulped, mouth suddenly dry. Jean Treveille had been more a father to him than… Than _anyone_. Would he be angry that Aramis hadn't reached out? Happy that he was alive?

Athos and Porthos flanked him. "It's him, Captain," Porthos told Treveille, sounding a bit emotional himself. "He's alive."

"He's come home," Athos added. Aramis swallowed past the lump in his throat. Treveille was still gawking at him.

"Captain, I…" He never finished. In three strides, Treveille had crossed the room and promptly folded him into a tight hug, arms wrapped around his neck. Aramis went willingly, allowing the older man to smother him in a warm embrace.

"My son," Treveille whispered against his neck. Aramis's heart cracked. At some point, he had always known that Treveille thought of him as a son, but the other man had never expressly _said_ it. He tightened his embrace. Treveille spread out another arm and then Porthos was surrounding them in a massive bear hug, and Athos followed a moment later, more reserved but no less genuine. " _Mes fils._ You're alive. You're together," he pulled away, studied Aramis with sparkling eyes.

"I knew you couldn't be dead! There's not a tyrant or sword that can end your life, Aramis," he cried vehemently.

"I wouldn't go that far…" Aramis examined his old friend. Over time, he had misplaced Treveille's rare chuckles and commanding gait in his mind, but he could never forget his father's face. His eyes were drawn to the blue sash tied around Treveille's waist, and he smiled. "You look good." Treveille snorted, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Don't lie to your old captain soldier," upon noticing Aramis's curious gaze, he shrugged. "A way to remember you, and all you meant to me," Treveille squeezed his shoulder. "To everyone," Aramis couldn't speak, so he merely nodded, hoping the gratitude shone through his eyes.

"Where have you been?" Treveille demanded. His eyes flickered to encompass Athos and Porthos. "Where did you find him? And where is D'Artagnan?" The three exchanged a glance.

"Perhaps we should sit down," Athos suggested.

"It's a long story, Minister," Aramis agreed, gesturing to the other man's desk.

"I should think so!" Treveille harrumphed, separating from their group to plop heavily into his seat. When Aramis sat across from him, he reached over and squeezed his hand. "Does the Queen know?" Aramis swallowed around the lump in his throat, shaking his head silently.

"Which might be for the best," Porthos said from the chair to his right, warily. Aramis stared at him, horrified. How could he go about protecting the Louvre if Anne didn't even know he was still alive? _Did she mourn me?_ He wanted to ask Treveille. _Has she even told my son about me?_ Even if Anne could not tell Louis his true parentage, hopefully one day he would still grow up knowing that Aramis had existed.

Athos pulled up the third chair, straddling it casually. "I agree with Porthos," he chimed in. Aramis knew his own opinion would not be heeded. He only sighed and pulled away from Treveille, leaning back in his seat. He suddenly desperately wished he had another grass stalk to chew. "D'Artagnan was injured in the knee. I sent him back to the Garrison," Athos reported.

Treveille's eyebrows shot up. "How?" he demanded, voice pitched high with shock. "A ceasefire has been called. And _you,"_ he rounded on Aramis. "What the hell? Rochefort had us convinced you had been shot in the head. Or was this another of your elaborate plans?" he asked, squinting suspiciously at Athos and Porthos.

"This wasn't their fault, Treveille," Aramis hurried to explain. "They had no clue I was alive, either. Not until we met at Douai a few days ago. I've been… Traveling through France and Spain, disrupting enemy communications, aiding in the work of our spies, and infiltrating the Spanish Court," Treveille stared at him, befuddled.

"Why?" He croaked.

"To end the war, of course," Aramis took his last orders from his pocket, studying the worn paper in his hands. The familiar surface of the paper sent a jolt of apprehension down his spine. He hadn't wanted Athos and Porthos to see the words which had dictated five years of his life.

Orders he had loathed and worshipped in equal measures, but Treveille… Hopefully, he would understand. "A war I helped start. These are my final orders, given to me five years ago by Rochefort," he handed the paper to Treveille, who snatched it and began perusing the contents keenly.

When he finished, his shoulders were tense, and a rare fire had erupted in his eyes. "These orders are a death sentence," he growled.

Aramis smiled thinly. "Yes. Rochefort predicted I would be captured or killed before completing them, but also knew I'd prefer that fate over deserting. He knew that you wouldn't stop looking for me, and if you found me, I'd be able to discredit him. So," he shrugged. "I had to die."

"Rochefort threatened our lives," Athos added. "To keep Aramis silent. When we found each other, he wouldn't let us approach him until he knew Rochefort wasn't alive," Treveille nodded absently, still studying the paper.

"And your mission?" He asked, without looking up. "Did you do it? Was it you that murdered the Spanish Minister?" Aramis's steady gaze was answer enough. Treveille sighed and set the paper down, rubbing his temples wearily. "I don't know whether to thank you or smack you. You have momentarily halted the war, but if the Spanish ever find out it was you, they'll blame the French government, and then they'll be justified in wanting war," he said. Aramis nodded.

"I covered my tracks well," he promised. Then cringed as he recalled the reason for his being there. "Too well, actually."

Treveille looked as if he were increasingly tempted to smack him. "What do you mean?" He groaned. The long-suffering tone of voice was so familiar that Aramis chuckled.

"Somehow, Spanish mercenaries have gotten it into their heads that _we_ killed Alvaro," Athos told him.

"The Musketeers?" Treveille gasped. "How? Why?"

Porthos quirked an eyebrow in his direction, and Aramis remembered that he hadn't explained that reason to them very well either. He didn't take his gaze from Treveille. "The Spanish managed to capture a French spy by the name of Acel. I presume you know him?" A nod. "He's dead. Tortured," Treveille's face fell.

"He was a good man."

Aramis snorted. "Once, maybe," he said bitterly. "He was unable to endure the torture. Acel knew I had murdered Alvaro- he helped me get close to him- but he refused to divulge my name. Instead, to make the pain stop, he blamed it on the Musketeers. It's easier to cast doubt on a group of insignificant soldiers." Porthos recoiled, aghast.

 _"_ _Insignificant?"_ He hissed.

"Not by my opinion, dear Porthos. I meant only that should word reach Spain that the Musketeers killed Alvaro, the Spanish king will probably demand your heads on platters. And since you are only soldiers…" Athos barely blinked as he finished the thought.

"The King will hand us over in a heartbeat."

"Exactly. Acel probably assumed it was better to lose a hundred soldiers rather than a valued assassin. That's why I've returned to Paris. There is a Spanish assassin by the name of Miguel. He was tasked to hunt down all French spies and assassins. Now, instead, he'll want to avenge Alvaro," Porthos leaned forward intently, folding his hands in his lap.

"When he attacked us in the forest, it looked like you knew each other."

"We do," Aramis admitted. "Miguel is… Well, it's a long story. Suffice to say, he's a powerful and intelligent man. He'll be commanding the legion of assassins that are probably storming into the city as we speak. Not only is he coming for me, but the Musketeers as well, and probably you, Minister," Treveille brows came together worriedly.

"Is the King in danger?"

 _Oh, yes. Him._ Aramis tried not to let his distaste show on his expression. Athos and Porthos made no such attempt. "The entire _city_ is in danger. Miguel is not to be under estimated," he cautioned instead of answering.

"He almost slaughtered our forces in the forest on our way here," Athos told Treveille. "That's where D'Artagnan was wounded. Had it not been for Aramis, we all would have been annihilated."

Aramis waved a dismissive hand, redirecting the praise. "He probably has friends in the French court who can get him close to the King. We'll have to root them out. He also has the Italians, who Spain has hired to help track down assassins," Treveille nodded.

"Including you."

" _Especially me._ In Spain, I am known as Rene, _el francotirador_. Some believe me to be a myth, others know the truth. Unofficially, I am wanted by the Spanish government for murder and conspiracy. They'll do anything to see me dead," which was why he had intended to leave. To escape, but Adelina was right.

They couldn't run forever.

At least he could die here, knowing he was still serving France and his regiment. _And_ _protecting my son_. Porthos's face was grave. "So if the Spanish King discovers we're harboring you in Paris, he could demand that we hand you over," he pointed out. Aramis gave him a rueful grin.

"I'm sorry, _mon ami,"_ he whispered. "My days are numbered."

"No, they aren't," Athos protested. "The Spanish King knows about Rene, but what about Aramis?"

"That's true," Treveille gasped, a slow smile spreading across his face. "No one knows that you are actually Rene. If you return as Aramis, we could hide you in plain sight. We could say you were unlawfully exiled by Rochefort and became a… A priest in the monastery in Douai. Then, you'd just be another victim of corruption, instead of…"

"A refugee?"

"Exactly."

"It's brilliant!" Porthos cried excitedly. "That could explain Adelina too. We could say you adopted an orphan from Douai!"

Aramis shook his head, his insides twisting with worry. "There are several assassins that know my face. Including Miguel. We announce that I am Aramis, and they won't hesitate to take that as proof that the Musketeers killed Alvaro," he said.

"Perhaps, but what could the Spanish King say about it? He can't accuse us of harboring an assassin without admitting that they _have_ assassins in Paris, thus angering Louis and giving us a legitimate cause for war," Aramis ran a hand through his curls.

"It'd be safer if no one knew I was here. If everyone thought both Aramis and Rene were nothing but dead bones and fairytales," he stressed.

Porthos crossed his arms, glaring. "That makes it easier for you to vanish when the danger to us has passed, too. Nope. Not happenin," he harrumphed. Aramis gave him a half smile. One day, he might convince his brothers he'd never leave them willingly. Today was not that day.

Besides, Porthos did have a point.

Treveille looked between the three of them, obviously at a lack for words. Athos shrugged. "It's a plan," he decided.

Aramis sighed. "I don't like it, but I can see that my doubts will not find sympathetic ears here…"

"Nope."

"So glad to see you've got your senses back."

"Have they ever?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "However, there's still the matter of the assassins already here, hunting you. I'd like to be prepared, if it isn't too much to ask," he said.

"What do you have in mind?" Treveille wondered.

"I know how such men work and think. Give me command over the spies and assassins we have in our employ. I'll make sure the crown is safe, as well as the Musketeers," he reached out and pressed a hand to Porthos's shoulder.

Treveille arched his brows. "Once upon a time, you would fairly run from the room if I offered to give you command over anything," he pointed out.

 _After Savoy,_ Aramis thought. "Like I said, Aramis had to die. I'm a new person now," Treveille's eyes widened, as Athos and Porthos's had. Then softened into reluctant understanding. Aramis felt a tinge of anger. Why was everyone so... sorry? He did not mourn the man he used to be.

That man had been a plague, killing anyone in the near vicinity by presence alone, a lascivious and lost soul who could not have survived the past five years. Because of who he had become- because of _Rene_ \- every day he felt his heart thudding in his chest and was grateful for it.

His heart was unbreakable. Aramis's had been so fragile it shattered upon every impact. "Very well. I trust you," Treveille said, reaching into his desk and pulling out a quill and scroll of paper. "I'll write the order," Aramis smiled, and turned to his brothers.

"Good. Let's get to work."


	13. Chapter 13

_**Three days Later:**_

D'Artagnan had never seen so little of his brothers as he did upon their return to Paris.

Granted, he was not loath to have more time with Constance, but as head of the Garrison, she had responsibilities greater than herself. And with his knee still injured, he was bored more often than not. He had ventured from his rooms only to use the privy and to clean weapons in the armory, his pride demanding that he still find some way to be useful.

He caught glimpses of them only. Porthos as he passed by their rooms with an apple in his mouth. He had always clapped D'Artagnan on the shoulder as he sped by, commanding him to _stay off his damned feet and rest afore I call Constance._ That threat itself was enough to make D'Artagnan lay in his bed, pouting.

He had seen Athos even less. He had heard him calling out to either Porthos or Aramis from his office, his voice strained from sleeplessness. One night, D'Artagnan had blinked awake, hearing a rustle in the dark, and seen Athos standing outside his door with Constance, discussing business quietly. Athos had noticed him staring, offered a small smile and closed the door.

He had seen Aramis and his shadow a couple times, quick silhouettes peeping from his window or from the corners of the armory. Had scared the hell out of him until Aramis learned to announce his presence with a quick whistle. Adelina remained silent, her dark eyes like a cat's glowing orbs in the darkness.

They had all stopped by to visit Constance a few nights previous, including Athos and Aramis, who arrived to introduce Adelina before all three vanished to their separate duties again. By now, the entire Garrison knew that Aramis was back. He had begun weaving a tale of priesthood in the Monastery of Douai, effectively fooling everyone into believing he had spent the past five years in a cozy monastery.

It was an amusing thought.

Now, on day three, D'Artagnan was both bored out of his mind and plagued with memories. February had crept into his mind slowly, kept at bay by the joy of Aramis's return and the hustle of being in Paris again, but it had come. And memories of his father had joined, sending D'Artagnan into such moods of melancholy and boredom that he had started counting the lines of cobwebs on his ceiling. He had tried dusting, once, but Constance had caught him and told him to lay the hell down.

D'Artagnan sighed and sat up, leaning forward to tug at the bandage around his knee. The pain had lessened until it was nothing but a soreness along the muscles. It only shook when he stood for too long.

 _I should be out there,_ he thought. _Helping._ In his recovery, Constance had told him about the state of Paris, the hunger, the over crowded streets and the desperation of refugees looking for a new life. It made his heart ache to know that while he and his brothers fought out there, life in his beloved city had undergone a war of its own.

The door to their home creaked open. "D'Artagnan?" Constance called. D'Artagnan grinned, leaning against the wall behind him and crossing his ankles.

Apparently, time had passed faster than he had thought it would. Constance was only able to return long after the sun had set. "I'm still alive!" he called back. There was the sound of pots being moved and cupboards being opened.

D'Artagnan once again cursed his inability to stand. A moment later, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Two sets of footsteps, actually. D'Artagnan arched his brows as Constance waltzed into the room. There were bags of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, and her long hair was disheveled, but her smile was bright.

"Hello, love. How is your knee?" She asked leaning over to give him a kiss. D'Artagnan captured her lips for a long moment, heart fluttering. Even after all this time, he could still hardly believe that _she_ loved him.

When they separated, he was slightly breathless from the joy of it. "I'm fine," he reached up, stroked the hair back from her face. "You look tired. Do you want to lie down?" He asked.

Constance sighed and straightened. "I'd love too, but not tonight," she said. "Tonight, I've brought a guest, and he'll probably be joined by a small celebration in a moment," she informed him. Curiosity bloomed on a amidst his despondency.

"Oh?"

"Well," a voice drawled from the doorway, stepping into the candlelight. "I wouldn't call it a _celebration,"_ Constance kissed Athos on the cheek. He smiled at her fondly, squeezing her arm. "Are we sure I can't make you Captain, Constance?" Athos asked.

"Any day you want to give me the honor, I'm ready Athos."

"I relinquish my post to you immediately," Athos said, without hesitation. Constance giggled, slapping his arm. Then she left in a breeze of good humor, though D'Artagnan had a feeling Athos was only half joking. His mentor came to sit beside him on the bed.

He grinned. "So my captain lives!"

He raised his hand and Athos gripped his forearm tightly, brother to brother. "Likewise lieutenant. Why aren't you up yet soldier?" Athos inquired, eyes twinkling.

"My _wife,"_ D'Artagnan raised his voice. "Is holding me against my will!" Athos chuckled.

"Don't have me come back there!" Constance warned. D'Artagnan huffed and leaned back onto his bed.

"She's the Captain. Don't test her," Athos scolded him. He squeezed his leg beneath the covers. "How do you feel?" He asked, seriously. D'Artagnan shrugged.

"Only a lingering soreness. It might be more in due to age than the injury," Athos snorted dubiously. "Hey, I'm getting older too!"

"How terrible," Athos supposed, sarcastically. D'Artagnan chuckled, suddenly wishing Porthos was here. He would have made a joke about Athos's age, and probably Aramis too. "Are you actually capable of getting out of bed by yourself?"

D'Artagnan stiffened, eagerness flooding him. _Finally._ "Absolutely. Why? Does this have something to do with the celebration you're bringing?" he asked.

Athos looked at him with amusement, offering a hand. D'Artagnan waved the assistance away, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing. He shifted weight to both feet for a second, testing the strength of his injured knee. "I don't _bring_ celebrations. They follow me. Do you know what today is?" He asked.

D'Artagnan blinked. Did Athos really think he could forget? His father had been _murdered_... "February third. Why?"

Athos watched his progress with sharp eyes, ready to catch him should he suddenly tumble over. D'Artagnan would have been insulted if he could, but they both knew he would have acted the same if Athos had been injured.

He glanced at the bandage still tied around Athos's throat, hiding the thin cut left by Miguel. Well, _more_ injured anyway. "Seven years ago today, you stormed into the Garrison gates and accused me of murdering your father. You then proceeded to attack me, then to fight Aramis, and then Porthos all at the same time," D'Artagnan stumbled as the memories assaulted him.

 _"_ _Fight me or die on your knees! I don't care which!"_

Athos caught him by the elbows, grabbing one of D'Artagnan arms and draping it over his shoulders supportively. The other arm he wrapped around D'Artagnan's waist.

"That was my general feeling on it," he concurred, dryly.

"I can't believe I forgot!" D'Artagnan cried, laughing. He had been so consumed in his father's death he had neglected the family that had become of it. "Today _is_ the day I met you three! Has it really been seven years?" Athos shrugged.

"It feels as though it hasn't been that long. Or perhaps like it's been a lifetime," he agreed. D'Artagnan shook his head fondly. He could hear Constance in the dining room, rummaging about in their cupboards. Suddenly, he heard banging on their door strong enough to rattle the wooden frame. He recognized the pattern immediately and smiled. The celebration had arrived, then.

"Porthos, if you break my door, I will skewer you!" Constance yelled.

"Is that why we're celebrating?" D'Artagnan asked Athos as the two of them hobbled into the dining room where Constance was playfully slapping at Porthos as he tried to tickle her.

"Well, we're also celebrating Aramis's return. Besides, this is the time of year when I ran into Porthos and Aramis, so things have aligned quite nicely," Athos answered, dumping D'Artagnan into the nearest couch near the fireplace. Porthos had ceased tormenting his wife, smothering her in a great bear hug instead. Constance laughed as she allowed him to twirl her around.

"Oi! Stop flirting with my wife, scoundrel!" D'Artagnan yelled. His wife and said scoundrel ignored him pointedly.

"Alright, alright, Porthos! I'm happy to see you too, though it's only been a few days!" Constance laughed. Porthos set her down, brandishing a bottle of champagne in his hands as he headed over, landing in the wooden seat beside the fireplace with a groan of relief. He tilted his head toward the ceiling, resting a moment. D'Artagnan could see the lines of tiredness languishing on his face.

"You alright?" He asked softly.

Porthos popped one eye open to smile at him. "Yeah," he breathed. "Exhausted, but fine. What about you?" He asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Only reason I'm still in bed is because my wife is as over protective as my brothers," he whined. Athos smacked him behind the head as he passed, leaning against the fireplace with arms crossed.

"Ya know I didn't just mean your knee," Porthos told him quietly, eyes staring at his face with sincerity. D'Artagnan exhaled slowly.

"I'm doing alright," he assured Porthos. "I may have lost my father seven years ago, but I met three of my best friends too. I have no regrets," Porthos grinned, nodding. Constance brought over cups, sitting on the couch across from Porthos and grabbing at the champagne bottle.

"Where's Aramis?" She asked.

Porthos waved a hand in Athos's direction. "You seen him lately?"

Athos nodded. "Today, but only briefly. He's usually busy leading spies, but I managed to snag him," he reported.

"What did you need him for?" D'Artagnan asked as he accepted the cup of champagne his wife handed him. He smiled his thanks and downed it, a trick he had learned from watching senior soldiers. A brew was better when enjoyed in one gulp. Constance did the same for Athos and Porthos. Both men tipped their cups in gratitude, but only Porthos drank. Athos swished the liquid in his cup contemplatively, staring at its contents wearily. D'Artagnan remembered that Athos had not had a single drink in almost five years.

"I had a new Pauldron made for him," Athos admitted. "Since he abandoned his old one. I tried to give it to him today," D'Artagnan scowled.

" _Tried_?"

"He refused it."

"What?" Porthos squawked as Constance collapsed into the couch cushions, sipping at her own drink of champagne. "I'll kill 'im. Did he give you a reason?"

Athos nodded, still swirling his wine thoughtfully. "He did. He said he didn't deserve it, and he would not disgrace the regiment by dawning the symbol of the Musketeers when he is unworthy. A noble sentiment, if not idiotic," D'Artagnan scowled, exchanging a glance with Constance. He could see his own worry mirrored in her eyes.

"Did you tell him that?"

"At length. He still refused it. I promised I would hold unto it until he came to his senses, told him about tonight's celebrations and he left." Porthos reached over and plucked the glass of champagne from Athos's grip, drinking it himself. Athos nodded his thanks.

"Do you think he refused it because he's planning on leaving again?" Constance inquired, speaking aloud their thoughts. Athos shook his head.

"He keeps saying that _he_ started this war," he pointed out quietly. D'Artagnan stared at him, aghast. Did Athos really _believe_ that?

"Yeah, but Aramis always blamed himself for things out of his control. Like Savoy," Porthos pointed out, narrowing his eyes in that semi-vengeful way he did when Athos did something to displease him. D'Artagnan hurried to diffuse the situation, as had been his wont these past five years.

"Besides," D'Artagnan added. "He won't elaborate on what he means. We know Rochefort made him do some questionable things… But surely, he doesn't think he _alone_ placed the pieces? It had been bubbling up for some time," since Emilie's brutal reign of terror.

Athos rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yet it only began _after_ he was sent away…" He contemplated.

"Athos," Porthos growled, eyes flashing. "What are you sayin?"

Athos looked up as if surprised he had spoken aloud. "Not that he's solely responsible," he assured them when he saw Porthos's look. "Just that there is much about Aramis's past that we don't know. One of the last things Rochefort said was that he was a murderer, a monster. Evidently Aramis believes it, even if we don't," Constance let out a bitter chuckle.

"Aramis would think he's capable of flying if someone gave him a reason to feel guilty about it," she snorted. D'Artagnan sent her an affectionate glance, even if uneasiness had begun to roil in his stomach.

"But what if he's right? What if we're not only harboring an assassin, but a _murderer_?" he whispered.

"Then we are," Porthos grunted simply. "It doesn't matter what else he is, or what weird lies Rochefort filled his head with. He's still our brother."

"According to him, our brother is dead. He's Rene now."

"He's an idiot, sure and true as he ever was. C'mon boys, this is _Aramis_ we're talkin about! We all would have committed murder ourselves two years ago, if it meant we could have him with us again," D'Artagnan leaned forward to rub at his knee as pain suddenly flared behind the joint.

"Some of us did try to commit murder," he pointed out dryly, spearing his brothers with a pointed look. Neither had the grace to look guilty, though they did nod in silent apology. "Besides, we wanted him as he was. Not… Not this."

Athos poured him a little more wine as Porthos continued, hotly. "War changes everyone. Listen, I'm not happy about his secrecy either, but we've changed too. All of us," Porthos spread his arms to encompass those in the room.

"What? We begin doubting just because he refused to wear The Pauldron? Constance _can't_ wear a Pauldron. We all know she's a Musketeer," he pointed out. D'Artagnan smiled proudly at his wife, who did not look either surprised or touched by the statement. She had always known that she was worthy of that title.

"Porthos," Athos said unhappily. "We aren't doubting him, just…"

Porthos gave him a cool stare. "Doesn't matter. He's our brother, 'Thos. I don't care what Rochefort said or what he's done. He ain't a monster. If anything, he was just a pawn," he argued.

"But is he still a pawn?"

"We really gonna go on about this? On the anniversary of the day we all _met,_ of all times?"

"Porthos is right," Constance decided. "No matter what happens, Aramis returned to keep you all safe. He seems to take it seriously. I know he has Adelina following me," she said.

"I've seen her peeking into my window a few times. Scared the hell out of me," D'Artagnan agreed. Athos and Porthos nodded, indicating that they, too, had been followed by Aramis's second shadow.

Constance folded her hands in her lap, pursing her lips worriedly. "And no one has told the Queen about…?" She began.

"What haven't we told the Queen?" Aramis piped in, strutting in from D'Artagnan and Constance's bed chamber. He was carrying a silver tray, the contents of which were covered by a small cloth, but D'Artagnan could still smell the warm sweetness of pastries. That was the second thing he noticed anyway.

The first were the shaking pistols that had suddenly found themselves into the hands of all three people in the room, including his wife. He felt a spurt of pride sprinkled with surprise. He hadn't known Constance was armed.

Aramis blinked at the guns as if nothing were out of the ordinary, grinning shamelessly. Adelina stepped out from behind him, eyebrow cocked. Athos sighed when he saw it was only them, lowering his weapon with an exasperated glare.

"Damn it, 'Mis, would you _not_ do that?!" Porthos erupted, lowering his own pistol slowly, as if half tempted to shoot their friend anyway. D'Artagnan couldn't necessarily blame him. "Where did you even come from?

Aramis jerked his head back the way they'd come. "We snuck in through the window," he told them, cheerfully. "Not exactly wise to walk in the front door when assassins are looking for us. I hope you don't mind our unconventional entrance, _ma cherie?"_ Aramis inquired as he threw himself unto the couch beside Constance, uncovering the platter of warm pastries beneath her nose temptingly. Constance slapped him. "Ow!"

"Don't you sweet talk me, you bastard," Constance scolded him, even as her eyes surveyed the options presented to her. She grinned, delighted, when she caught sight of the almond pastry hidden in the pile. She plucked it from its spot, licking the caramel from her fingers daintily. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. Aramis knew that almond pastries were his wife's favorite.

"Why is everyone flirting with my wife?" he demanded. "Athos promotes her to Captain, Porthos gives her bear hugs and now you come bearing pastries. She's taken, boys," he groused.

"Don't forget your place, whelp," Porthos snickered. "She's been our sister longer than she's been your wife."

"Far longer," Aramis agreed, passing the tray to his friend, who glared at him silently for a long moment before accepting.

"You'd better have brought me a chocolate _religieuse,_ 'Mis," Porthos growled, searching through the selections. His stomach rumbled pointedly, as if agreeing with the sentiment. Adelina walked over to the fire, leaning against it opposite Athos. He greeted her with a formal nod.

Aramis placed a hand against his heart, as if wounded. "Why, Porthos, it's the anniversary of our meeting! I'd be a poor friend if I didn't!" He cried.

"How'd you afford all this?" Athos asked suspiciously. "The taxes are too high for people to afford enough bread to share. And these pastries are of fine quality," he pointed out. Porthos found his pastry of choice, letting out a triumphant shout as he bit into the softness, groaning with appreciation. D'Artagnan felt his own mouth water. He reached out, grabbing at it impatiently.

"Share, Porthos!"

"Get your own!"

" _Gentlemen,"_ Athos sighed. Aramis laughed.

"It was expensive," he agreed. "But if there is one talent I have honed over the years, brother, it is my penchant for sweet talking, as Constance had it," he told them, nodding to the hostess of the house, currently chewing a mouthful of almond pastry.

"You _talked_ the baker out of fine breads?" Athos asked, dubiously. Porthos started to pass the tray over to D'Artagnan, reluctantly, but Athos intercepted the pastries. He held it up, much to the protest of those around him. "Did you steal these?" he demanded, bluntly. D'Artagnan gave a start, an instant defense on the tip of his tongue, but Aramis grinned impishly enough that he began to doubt.

Adelina chuckled. "He can be very devious when he wants to be," she told them.

"Relax, Athos. I didn't steal anything. I met a woman a few days ago named Sylvie, I've told you about her? She's been helping me weed out the murderers and assassins from the refugees filling the city. The baker's son was a soldier in the King's army, wounded, presumed dead. I found him milling into the city with the others and reunited him with his family. In return," Aramis waved at the tray. "The baker made me these."

Athos arched a brow and passed the tray onto D'Artagnan, but not before he snagged a canele. "Why didn't you say so before?" he asked.

"I prefer to keep my good deeds to myself. Besides, I enjoyed the thought that you truly believed I could talk a man out of his livelihood," Aramis chuckled.

"Sometimes, I wonder," Athos grumbled.

"Well, Porthos and I did talk you into becoming a Musketeer. Don't you remember?"

"I do!" Porthos snorted. "Stubbornest vagabond I'd ever met, Athos was. Here we were, doin our Christian duty…" He began. D'Artagnan leaned back in his seat, smiling. He had heard this story before- many times- but it never got old.

"You challenged me to cards so that you could cheat money out of me," Athos interrupted wryly.

"And Athos doesn't even give me the time of day," Porthos agreed in a vengeful harrumph. D'Artagnan laughed, trying to imagine a much younger Porthos sliding into a seat across from Athos and daring him to chance his luck at cards. Somehow, all he could conjure was a mental image of Athos's worst death glare.

He turned to his mentor, curiously. The other man shrugged, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. "In my defense, I was poor and downtrodden. And from my viewpoint, you two appeared just as much so," he defended himself.

Porthos reared back, slamming a fist to his chest proudly. "Oi! I was the handsomest devil in there that night!" Aramis snorted. Porthos ignored him. "And what would give you the idea we were _downtrodden?_ "

"We met in a bar." Constance sputtered a laugh. Adelina's eyes twinkled as she smiled.

"And whose fault was that, _mon ami?"_ Aramis inquired dryly. "When Athos turned Porthos down for cards, he vanished. We thought little of it, of course, until we heard a scuffle outside. Porthos and I weren't even _looking_ for trouble that night..."

"The only stipulation being you two never have to look for trouble. It follows you about. Like a plague."

"We just wanted a quiet place to play a deck," Porthos said. "Aramis wanted to flirt with the local women. All was fine and right with the world _,_ and you know what happens? We find this one battling Magnus on a bridge. Athos got the upper hand, of course, but…"

"He couldn't help but fall into the Seine, in the true fashion of Noblemen," Aramis told them. Constance giggled. D'Artagnan struggled to keep his expression neutral, but even Athos had to give a consenting nod at the joke. "He would have drowned had Porthos not jumped in and fished him out. I've never seen you move so fast, _mon ami_ ," Aramis said to Porthos, fondly.

Porthos shrugged. "I had a good feeling about this one," he replied, jerking his head to Athos, whose face slowly turned red past his emotionless facade.

Aramis continued. "So, you said. I handled Magnus, and by the time I had turned him over to The Red Guard to be taken away, Porthos was hauling Athos back to dry land. He nearly died. It was February and he was so cold and wet that his skin had turned blue…"

"So instead of leaving me to my fate, as merciful men would have, they decided to torture me instead," Athos finished.

"Torture?" Aramis demanded. "We brought you to _Notre Dame._ I knew a few of the nuns there… And _stop_ smirking, D'Artagnan, not in that way! Shame on you," D'Artagnan and Adelina grinned together, exchanging a glance of amusement. "And they brought him into the back rooms, fished him some blankets and helped us keep him alive," Aramis shook his head, chuckling.

"When I woke up, I was naked!" Athos growled. D'Artagnan clapped a hand over his mouth when a snort made its way past his lips.

"Your clothes were soaked, and the nuns aren't squeamish," Aramis explained.

Athos was hardly mollified. He crossed his arms and stepped past D'Artagnan into the kitchen. A moment later, he came back wielding a chair, which he sat next to D'Artagnan and slumped into tiredly.

"When I woke, I could remember nothing from the night before. A side effect of the cold, I'm told. When I asked what had happened, and where my clothes _were,_ the nuns told me that I had been saved by Musketeers. It seemed an unlikely story, for I couldn't fathom of two men who would risk their lives to save a drunkard, but I had no proof it _hadn't_ happened. Naturally, I felt obligated to find them and show proper gratitude."

" _Naturally_ ," Aramis whispered to Porthos, who chuckled. "You were curious to see who we were," he called, echoing D'Artagnan's thoughts. Athos dipped his head in acquiescence.

"Naturally," he drawled, making Porthos and Aramis snicker joyfully. He rolled his eyes. "But wherever I went, they were nowhere to be found," Athos said.

Porthos's face turned grave. "Aramis had been sent to Savoy that morning and I was part of the King's entourage for his hunt. Didn't see Athos for another few months, for reasons I'm sure are obvious," he recalled.

"When we did," Aramis continued, smoothly. "Athos more than repaid us for saving his life. In the weeks following Savoy, the populace was… Restless. Everyone believed the Spanish had attacked us in Savoy, and thus took it as an act of war. There were several attempts on the Queen's life," he shuddered.

"Aramis, idiot that he was and is, still wasn't fully healed yet, but when there was news of an intruder in The Louvre, we headed to battle. And battle it was…"

"By that he means riot," Constance piped in.

"I'd heard about that in Gascony!" D'Artagnan cried. "A mob stormed the castle, apparently? Trying to demand answers from the King on why he had married a Spanish Queen."

"Yep. It was our job to quell the riot and move them away from The Louvre. The Red Guard had no problem pummeling people to the ground, but we didn't wanna hurt them," Porthos said. "They were just ordinary people, afraid and confused. But even with every guard out there, we were still outnumbered."

"Please don't tell me you were part of the crowd," D'Artagnan pleaded Athos, who snorted.

"I couldn't care less about the politics of that time," he informed him. "I was nursing a hangover in a tavern when I heard the noise. I went to investigate."

" _Naturally,"_ Aramis and Porthos teased in unison.

Athos arched a brow at them. "And found the Musketeers vastly outnumbered and separated. I was about to move on- again, politics were not my main concern- when I saw a child crying amidst the crowd. She had probably been knocked from her mother's hands, and I knew she would be trampled if no one grabbed her. I volunteered."

"At the same time as I was headed for her," Aramis agreed. "We nearly ran head first into each other trying to grab the girl. I recognized Athos, of course, but unfortunately I was recognized too," He sighed, turning his gaze to Adelina. "I'm afraid some people just don't like the look of my face. It's a tragedy," he confided. Adelina rolled her eyes.

"I think your face is appropriately appalling," she assured him. Aramis grinned, rolling his eyes.

"Some poor fool thought he was Spanish. One moment we're both reaching for the child, and the next I see a man standing over Aramis with an axe. I pushed him aside and took up arms, naturally," Athos continued.

"I was frankly shocked. Athos, even totteringly drunk, still handled himself admirably. I could see he didn't need _my_ help, and besides, he had just saved my life. I grabbed the child and hurried from the crowd. When I had gotten her to safety with a nearby market seller, I returned for Athos. He had handled himself well and fine but having disarmed the first adversary found himself surrounded by five others. I've never been one to shy away from a fight, so I joined him."

"I had been searching for 'Mis anyway, and when I found 'im fighting at the side of our favorite drunkard, I had to get meself a piece of the action! Treveille was helping quell the crowd too. He said he saw the three of us fightin' together from afar, and thought he'd just seen avenging angels descend."

Constance barked a delighted laugh. "He did not!"

Porthos patted his chest. "Swear it on my life. It was incredible. We were in sync from the very moment we met. By the time the crowd was dispersed, we were giddy with the thrill of fighting. Athos might have been a little tipsy still. We helped the girl track down her mother and went out for celebratory drinks."

"We spent all night trying to convince Athos to approach Treveille about a commission," Aramis laughed. "Still, he turned us down! Me and Porthos didn't give up though. We knew he'd give in eventually."

"I did so just to shut them up."

"Which was our plan all along!" Aramis agreed, clapping his hands together at the genius of their strategy. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat comfortably. "Besides even if he didn't see his own greatness, we knew it was in there hiding," he said.

"But I saw it first," Porthos argued reasonably.

"You're mistaken, Porthos. I told _you_ that..."

"Would you two _stop it?"_ Athos groaned, hiding his burning face in the crook of his arm, mortified by their exchange. Porthos chuckled as D'Artagnan patted Athos on the back comfortingly. His cheeks ached from smiling, but he couldn't help it. This was the most Porthos had teased Athos in _years._

"We helped him secure lodgings that weren't the street corner, sought him out every time we were in Paris. Eventually, he just started tagging along on missions with us, like you did D'Artagnan," _well, that's a surprise._ Then again, Athos had once told him that they were more alike than D'Artagnan thought.

"Really?" D'Artagnan gasped, looking to Athos, who shrugged.

"I had no interest in becoming a Musketeer at all," he admitted. "In truth, I was just happy to be useful, and I learned much on those trips. Back then, I was still in anguish over Anne, and when I left Pinon, I had no idea how the world actually worked. I had never wanted for anything in my life, nor spent more than ten seconds without someone trying to cater to my every whim. Until these two started harassing me, I had been figuring it all out by myself."

"And doing badly at it," Porthos added.

"So, why did you finally give in? Just to shut up Aramis?" Constance asked.

"Basically."

"I claim all credit for any good you've done since then," Aramis harrumphed, crossing his arms smugly.

"Hey! I was there too!"

"Yes, but he did it to shut _me_ up, Porthos!"

"For goodness sakes. Gentlemen!" Athos hissed, throwing up his hands when the two began bickering. They quieted upon hearing his statement, grinning impishly. Athos glared at them for a moment, before he softened, evidently having weighed something in his mind. "It was both of your faults. In truth, I finally gave in because I had never met kinder, more honorable men in my life, and their belief in me was humbling. They were, by that time, my salvation and my soul. It really wasn't a choice at all."

Aramis and Porthos stared, dazed by the sincerity of the sudden admission. Athos smiled proudly. "You finally managed to silence them!" Adelina praised, applauding with palpable admiration. "A miracle!" Constance nodded, her expression soft with affection.

"Yes," Aramis said, hoarsely. His eyes looked a little wet in the firelight also. "But that begs the question, which one of us is the salvation and which is his soul?" He pondered philosophically.

"I'm 'is salvation. I pulled 'im from the river," Porthos automatically decided. "Basically baptized 'im, I did," D'Artagnan folded at once, laughing hard enough to make tears come to his eyes. Adelina snorted and even Athos laughed, caught off guard by the sure statement.

"You _what_!?" Aramis squawked over his own laughter. "He _fell_ into the water, Porthos!"

"And I pulled him out. Sounds like salvation to me," Porthos reasoned, barely holding back his own chuckles.

"Take your pick on which you'd like to be," Athos invited them when they had gained control over their laughter, swiping a tear from his eye.

"What am I?" D'Artagnan asked. Athos shrugged.

"A nuisance."

"Hey!"

"Ah, don't listen to im. You're our strength, D'Artagnan," Porthos consoled him. "Always have been," D'Artagnan ducked his head, feeling his face burn from embarrassment, and affection. He had long stopped doubting the rightness of his presence within the group, but hearing it made his heart soar.

"Except on Sundays. Then it's Constance," Aramis corrected, earning himself a kiss on the cheek. D'Artagnan shrugged, too content to fight over the title of _strength._

"Alright, alright! You two," Porthos said, pointing to Adelina and Aramis. "I have a question. Are you ever _without_ the other?" He demanded.

Adelina looked as if Porthos had just questioned her honor. "I haven't seen him all day, practically!" she cried.

Aramis yawned, gesturing to the plate of pastries still sitting in D'Artagnan's lap. "Now, do we always know where the other is? Of course. Adelina is my second in command in all things. We share a sixth sense, by now," he plucked a Macaroon from the tray, waving it to illustrate his point as Adelina's eyes followed his hand.

She promptly reached out and snatched the snack, popping it into her mouth before Aramis could protest. He scowled at her. Adelina smiled, nodding.

"A sixth sense while peeping into people's windows?"

"I'm offended you even need to ask," Adelina sniffed.

"Have you captured any assassins yet, with your _sixth sense_?" Athos wondered, diplomatically.

"I caught three in the lower levels of the Louvre yesterday," Everyone present surged upwards in their seats. In the _Louvre?_ Aramis looked bored. "Nasty little villain. Adelina found some Italians hiding amidst the refugees," he nodded to his sister, who shrugged humbly.

"They weren't the smartest bunch," she complained. "Hardly a challenge. It's better than taking on Miguel's crew, though. I have a bad feeling that he's only biding his time. Still, Merangue found some trying to sneak into the Garrison, and I shot one who had been outside your office," she told Athos.

"Did you say _The Louvre_?" Athos demanded, eyes burrowing into Aramis.

Aramis cocked a brow. "Where else?"

"And no one _told_ me? Have you even told Treveille?" Aramis looked surprised at the idea of reporting any incidence. D'Artagnan could have smacked his own forehead. "What if he had made it _inside_ , Aramis?" Athos growled. Aramis met his gaze evenly, not intimidated by the palpable anger Athos was exuding.

"You honestly believe I would allow an assassin anywhere near The Queen or the Dauphin?" He asked softly.

"And the King?!"

"Who?" Aramis and Adelina inquired, in a bitter unison.

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled slowly. "Athos, Adelina and I have been doing this for five years. Alone and without the resources I have here. I was going to tell you and Treveille when we actually had an assassin to interrogate," Aramis tried to console him, watching Athos's expression as if he couldn't imagine why Athos was angry. Porthos wondered when they had become so… Distanced from each other that Aramis should even have to _wonder._

"I thought you said you captured the assassins in the Louvre!" Constance pointed out, his expression one of acute irritation that D'Artagnan had learned to fear. So much for celebrating.

Aramis's eyes darkened. "They're dead." Something about the way he said that made D'Artagnan think that Aramis hadn't been forced to kill them to protect himself or the crown. He shook his head.

"You don't wait," Athos growled, every ounce of authority in his voice. D'Artagnan hadn't seen him so angry since… Since their mission in Alsace. "You don't keep things from me or Treveille. We're responsible for the lives of people in this city. You tell us _everything_ , is that understood?" Aramis studied Athos for a long moment, with the casual indifference one would use while examining an interesting bird. Adelina crossed her arms, turning attentive eyes to Aramis, waiting for his decision.

The hairs on the back of D'Artagnan's neck prickled at the obvious tension in the air.

"Aramis!" Porthos snapped in the silence.

Aramis didn't glance at him. He nodded, once. "As you say, Captain," he replied, sounding not an ounce contrite.

"You shouldn't have killed them. We could have gotten information," Athos stewed.

"They were lackeys. Pawns. Unimportant. Which means they wouldn't have been given much information anyway. What they could have told us would have been confined to what I already know," D'Artagnan exchanged a dark look with Porthos. Was Aramis _trying_ to incense Athos into shooting him?

"Do enlighten us," Athos said, coolly. "What do you _already_ know?"

Aramis leaned forward seriously, clasping his hands in his lap. There was no trace of that good-humored, sincere brother now. He was all Rene, the assassin. It made a shiver run up D'Artagnan's spine.

 _"_ _One of the last things Rochefort said was that he was a murderer, a monster."_

The past five years, D'Artagnan had seen many monsters and murderers, men without conscience or sense, and what he saw in Aramis's eyes was not that. His keen eyes were analytical, cold, and remote. It was as if he weren't even there. He had hallowed himself out, leaving behind only a fragment of what he had been, and that fragment was brutality.

"That Miguel has managed to smuggle in fifteen of his best assassins into the city. Five are tasked with targeting the Garrison. Five go to Treveille and five go to The King. If we can capture just _one_ of those assassins, we may be able to discover where Miguel is hiding, and root him out."

"And will you kill him, like he thinks you won't?" Porthos demanded.

Aramis shrugged. "I'll gut him if he touches one of you. Otherwise, probably not," the bluntness of his statement made D'Artagnan's mind spin.

"Why not?!" He hissed just as a sudden successive set of knocks pounded against the door. They all jumped except Aramis, who turned slowly in his seat to face the door.

The safety of Adelina's pistol clicked softly. "Hold that thought," Aramis told them calmly. His hands strayed to Constance's arm, stilling her as she stood to answer the summons. "Sombra. Go."

Adelina snuck past them quietly, holding her pistol to her chest dangerously. "What is it?" Constance whispered as Athos and Porthos raised their own guns. Adelina inched to the door, knocked on it twice, and then opened it a crack, peering out. She snapped something in Spanish to the person on the other side. They listened with baited breath as the man whispered back something that made Adelina relax.

She opened the door fully, inviting him inside. "He's clear," she reported.

Aramis stood as an older man scampered inside. D'Artagnan recognized him. He was a refugee, the shoemaker's new helper. Indeed, the smock around his waist and graying auburn hair attested to it. Aramis executed a courtly bow. "Monsieur Thibault," he greeted.

The old man smiled, taking off his hat and nodding to them all. "Captain Rene," he wheezed. "I have news from the Chatelet. From Elodie. May I speak with you?" He wondered. Aramis nodded, took a step as if to guide the old man toward the door.

A single chilling look from Athos halted him. Aramis cleared his throat and stayed. "This is one of your spies?" Athos asked, pushing himself to stand beside Aramis. Their brother nodded.

"He is indeed," he replied. "Thibault is a trusted comrade of Adelina and I."

"So you made him repeat a password," Athos observed listlessly.

Aramis chuckled. Thibault smiled sourly. "There is a code among spies. Trust does not mean the same thing to us as it does others, Captain Athos," Thibault told them. "Rene was right to do it. I could have easily been anyone, and there are no limits to what we will do to protect the Musketeers."

"Is Thibault even your real _name_?" Constance blurted, aghast.

He tipped his head to her respectfully. "No, Madame. It is but one name I go by in the service of France. Now, Captain?" He turned to Aramis. D'Artagnan had to admit a certain level of discomfiture seeing Athos- _his_ Captain- and Aramis- evidently _someone's_ captain- standing side by side.

Aramis hesitated only a moment. "You may speak freely."

Thibault hardly blinked. "Elodie found one of the fifteen. He entered the whorehouse late this afternoon. She kept him, er," a nervous glance at Constance. " _Satisfied_ until we arrived to capture him."

"Casualties?"

"Two of our men. Gregoire and James. He wasn't easy to take down, but inevitably we managed it. Your trap worked. We're holding him in the Chatelet as we speak." D'Artagnan and Constance exchanged a look of surprise and frustration. _Trap?_

"Good work," Aramis complimented, nodding.

"Did anyone see you take him?" Adelina asked. Thibault shook his head.

"No, _senorita_. Miguel won't know we have him until he fails to check in with the rest of his team. I predict it will take a few hours. Even then, we have our best men guarding the Chatelet. Any rescue attempt will be squashed with… Expediency."

Adelina crossed her arms, one eyebrow arched. "Do we know his name?" She asked.

"According to our records, he's called Mathias."

Aramis's eyes lit up. "Ah! I remember that one. He has a family, does he not?" He asked Adelina. A slow smile curled the side of her face.

"Two children," she agreed.

"Beautiful. Thibault, tell Elodie to… Er… _Begin_ her proceedings _._ For the next four hours. When that time is up, I will arrive to have a chat with Monsieur Mathias." Thibault bowed his head obediently.

"Yes, sir," and then he swiveled on his heel and left as quietly as a shadow. When he was gone, Athos rounded on Aramis angrily.

"You set a trap without informing me?"

Aramis returned the stare coolly. "Athos, I know you're not going to like this, but spies don't get work done because we _tell_ people what we're doing. I have several traps set all around the city. Did you suppose I'm just walking about all day, making friends and reuniting bakers with their sons? This is how things _work_ ," he stressed.

"Not here," Athos hissed. "Here, we're _a team."_

"And your trap cost good men their lives," Porthos added. "Didn't you hear? Two of your men are _dead,"_ Aramis didn't bat an eye.

"It's unfortunate. They'll be missed, but they didn't die in vain," he shrugged. "That's all we can hope for," D'Artagnan surged to his feet without thinking, ignoring the twinge in his knee as he strode over to grab Aramis by the collar.

"What is _wrong_ with you!?" He shouted. "You're acting like you don't even care about their deaths! As if they were just your pawns, and not humans!"

Aramis grabbed his wrists gently, easing him away. Adelina had moved closer, as if to guard him from attack. She was watching the four of them warily, dancing on her toes.

"They were human, D'Artagnan," Aramis said softly. "And they died for the most humanly good reason there is- for his fellow man. Is it right? No. Will I mourn them? Of course. Do I have the time or heart to mourn them _right now?_ No. The war may be over for you my friend, but for men like me," his eyes blazed.

"It never ends. Soldiers keep fighting, no matter who falls at their side." D'Artagnan felt fury wrap around his heart again, burning this time. Aramis would dare to lecture _him_ on the duties and sacrifices of a soldier? After five years of war and death?

A war he hadn't even been a part of because of his stupid secrets?

He lunged for him again, but a large hand on his shoulder stopped him. Porthos leaned forward at his side, nostrils flaring. "No, soldiers _protect_ people. They don't sacrifice them!" He snapped. "What about that woman, huh? The whore you had distract him? What if she had been hurt?" Porthos demanded.

"And since when have you started using prostitutes to lure people in?" Athos added.

Aramis's eyes flashed. "What are you talking about? We've used the sources of prostitutes since the regiment was formed! What I'm doing is hardly any different!" He cried.

"Your assassin murdered two men. We never put innocent people _in danger,"_ D'Artagnan barked.

"She's very well versed in handling her own affairs, thank you!"

"It's dishonorable!"

"Well, forgive me for not having the time nor privilege to take such things as _honor_ into account!"

Adelina stepped between the two parties, glaring at them each in turn. "Enough," she ordered coldly. "You're _all_ going to say something you regret!"

"Or maybe something that needs to be said," Porthos growled.

Adelina glared at him, before sighing. She shoved at Aramis's arm, guiding him out the door. "This is ridiculous. Rene, we must bury the men. Go, go!" She cried. Aramis glanced at her, silently communicating something in his eyes, before nodding.

"Perhaps she's right," he accepted.

Athos was still tense with anger, but he did not protest the idea. "You said you were interrogating the prisoner," he pointed out, in a tone D'Artagnan recognized. It meant that Athos was just _barely_ managing to hold his tongue.

"He'll be ready to talk in four hours," Aramis informed them. "If you'd like to take part, _Captain,_ you're welcome. Though I doubt you'll like my interrogation strategies, either," D'Artagnan and Porthos both growled at the slight sarcasm Aramis used when he said captain.

Athos narrowed his eyes. "Very well."

Aramis gave a single nod, eyebrow raised. Then he turned on his heel and left, Adelina cloaking his steps with a loyalty that used to be theirs.


	14. Chapter 14

Porthos was still steaming when they left D'Artagnan and Constance's rooms a few hours later, traveling across Paris to the Chatelet. His sour mood did not abate when he noticed four shadows trailing them through the night. Porthos's hand darted to his sword, heart leaping into his throat, but a quick hiss from D'Artagnan stilled him. He squinted, recognizing two figures in the gloom. Porthos snarled.

"Aramis's watch dogs," Athos spat, disgusted. He waved dismissively at the men, but they followed the three of them silently, devoted to their mission despite the clear irritation of their charges. Porthos felt a bit bad for taking out his ill-temper on the specters, but he hated being treated like a child.

He was a soldier, a warrior, and he could take care of himself.

Even D'Artagnan, the youngest of them, was more than capable of handling his own. Despite his still aching knee, the lad had argued with Athos until their captain agreed to let him come. Even Constance hadn't been able to talk him out of it. If Aramis could entrust his secrets to a spy, why not them?

When they finally reached the Chatelet, the walls were crawling with spies and assassins, a small army. "How many does he have?" D'Artagnan whispered as they were let into the building (again, silently). Porthos's head swiveled from the barricades above them to the doors inside. Eyes peered at them from the dark, ever vigilant.

"Treveille gave him every spy we could spare," Athos reported beneath his breath as they headed to the dungeons. "So, a hundred, maybe? It seems like more."

Porthos only grunted assent, fists clenched at his side. He could hear the moans and screams of the prisoners in their cells. He had never favored the Chatelet. Men were treated more like animals down there; it reminded him of the Court, reeking of misery and hopelessness.

When they reached the dankness of the dungeons, there were four guards standing outside a specific cell. But no Aramis. Porthos arched a brow. "Is he already in there?" he asked, eyeing the shadows suspiciously. By the dim fire cast by the torches along the walls, he could barely see more than two feet in front of him, but he had seen Adelina creep about enough to know she could be anywhere.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the dark hall. Porthos turned in time to see Aramis and Adelina appear in the torchlight, following Thibault. Aramis's eyes trailed over them, emotionlessly, before he turned his attention to the guard nearest the door. "Renald," he snapped. The man turned his head slowly, as if partly asleep.

"Rene?" He inquired.

"How is our prisoner?"

Renald shrugged. "Started screaming about an hour ago, Captain. He should be ready for you," he reported. A shiver ran down Porthos's spine. _Screaming?_ His eyes snapped to regard the stranger in front of him, half his face obscured by the dark.

"Aramis?" He demanded. "What is he talkin about?"

The Aramis he knew would never have condoned torture. The Aramis he loved would never have even thought of it. Intimidation, coercion, sometimes these things were needed, but _torture?_ This man regarded him gravely.

"Before we go in there, I need your word that you will not interfere. I _know_ you will have questions," he said, raising a hand to stave off their automatic protests. "And I will answer them honestly. I swear. But this entire operation could be destroyed if Mathias even vaguely suspects there is conflict between us. Agreed?"

The three of them stayed silent for a span of minutes in which Aramis did not look at them so much as _past_ them, into something Porthos couldn't fathom. Then, in a quiet sort of fury, Porthos whispered his heart. "What happened to you, Aramis?" Aramis's gaze focused on him a long moment.

He never did answer. "As you say, Captain," Athos replied, in the same tone that Aramis had used. Aramis didn't bat an eye.

"My thanks. Adelina, is everything in order?"

"Need you even ask?"

Aramis smiled softly. "Then let's go," and he led the way inside. Porthos was almost afraid of what he would see, but he was surprised to find the prisoner sitting in a chair. His shot of black hair, as curly and thick as Aramis's, tangled about his face. He had been stripped of his outer garments, leaving only a thin black shirt and leather pants. He showed no signs of abuse other than a few cuts on his cheeks.

His skin was a shade lighter than Porthos's but looked like burned caramel in the low lighting. His wrists had been shackled before him, and his ankles tied to the chair, and his chest heaved as if he had just finished running a marathon. Why had that guard said he was _screaming?_

D'Artagnan and Athos also looked surprised. Aramis moved past them effortlessly, standing directly before the prisoner with his hands clasped behind his back. Adelina leaned against the back wall, arms crossed.

When Aramis spoke, it was in French. "Hello," he greeted.

Mathias instantly spit on his feet. "Rene." He sneered. Aramis nodded.

"Ah, so you know me, do you? Or, you know me at least by name. Then you should know how this goes," Aramis took another step closer, invading the man's personal space with debonair. "You tell me where Miguel is hiding. Not what he's planning. Not when he's going to attack. Nothing else, just a location. Then it stops," he negotiated. Porthos felt Athos tense beside him.

They certainly could afford to know what Miguel's plan was and when he was going to attack. "Where are they?" The man wheezed. "You sick bastard, what have you done with them?" His voice cracked on the last word. Aramis chuckled.

"Who?" He inquired innocently.

"The children! My children!" A deep pit of horror settled in Porthos's gut at the despair in that tone.

"Oh them? They're being well taken care of, I assure you," Aramis stated conversationally. "Would you like to hear them?" He motioned to Adelina. She kicked the door behind them, once, twice and silence descended, Aramis watching their captive closely.

Then, an ear-shattering scream wrenched through the air. Porthos jumped, unsheathing his sword by instinct. Athos went pale, and D'Artagnan cursed, swiveling his head to try and find the sound's source.

"What the 'ell?" Porthos roared.

"PAPA!" A child shrieked. Another followed, the pure animal sound of panic and pain. Their prisoner instantly began struggling, crying out as if he were the one in agony. The screams bounced off the walls, as pervading as a ghosts's wail. Porthos felt a hard pit of horror settle in his gut. "Papa, help me!" the child screamed.

"You bastard!" Mathias shouted, banging his head against the back of his seat as if deranged. He let out a strangled sob. "Please!" he pleaded.

Aramis raised a fist. Adelina kicked against the door twice, and the sounds abruptly ended. "Don't hurt them, please!" The prisoner begged. "Have mercy!" Aramis nodded sagely.

"I believe in mercy," he considered, making Porthos's heart skip a beat. He stayed rooted to the spot, sickened beyond words, shocked to his core. "But I am also a consummate businessman, isn't that right, _senorita?"_ He tossed over his shoulder to Adelina, who hummed in agreement.

Aramis leaned down casually, settling his hand over the man's shoulder. Their prisoner flinched away as if expecting to be struck. Aramis did no such thing. He flashed a dazzling smile.

Like a monster.

"Tell me where Miguel is, Mathias. I know you are loyal to him, but if it is a choice between your children and your friend, well, that isn't much of a choice at all, is it? Those children are good. Perfect. Pure," Aramis's eyes misted over for a minute. He blinked, turned to their gasping victim. "They have no part in the folly of men. I can set them free. Wouldn't you like that?" Mathias hung his head, rough sobs pouring from his mouth.

"D-don't… They're innocent…" He gasped.

"Yes. And so are the people of this city. You will _not bring a war_ into their lives, do you understand? Tell you what. I'll give you until three to save the lives of your children," Aramis offered. The captive sobbed, shaking his head desperately.

"Please. Miguel tells me nothing!"

"One…"

"I don't know! I don't know!" The man sobbed. Porthos strode forward, teeth clenched, vision blurring with red. A strong arm halted him, and he looked down to see Adelina shake her head quickly.

He almost punched her.

"Two…"

"Please!"

Athos erupted _. "Aramis!"_

He swiveled on a heel, stuck Athos with an impatient look, and waved at Adelina. "Shoot them." The coldness in his voice made Porthos shudder.

"WAIT!" The prisoner screamed. "I'll tell you! Notre Dame! He's hiding in the bells of Notre Dame!"

Aramis turned around, studied his face for a moment. "Really?"

"Yes! Yes! P-please let them go!" Mathias begged. Aramis took a step back, nodding.

"Strategically sound. No one would think to look there except the bell keeper, and I assume he's dead, yes?"

"Yes."

"Good," Aramis patted the man's knee sympathetically. "Now, was that so hard?" He asked. Mathias looked up at him through eyes swimming with tears.

"Let them go. Please," he breathed.

Aramis nodded. He set a gentle hand on the man's shoulder as he wept. "I am a man of my word. Adelina, shall we?" Aramis gestured to the door. Adelina tugged at Porthos's arm, replying quickly in a language Porthos was too incensed to translate.

"Come on!" she hissed when he resisted. Athos, D'Artagnan filed into the hallway behind Aramis. Porthos joined them a moment later, glanced at the despondent man once more. He had bowed his head, weeping inconsolably, his cries bleeding into the moans and whimpers of other prisoners.

Porthos slammed the door shut behind him, exhaling a shuddering breath. He felt _unclean_ all of a sudden, in a way this war had never made him feel before. His stomach clenched as he turned to face the others, who had arranged themselves into a tense semi-circle in the hallway. "Are you out of your…?!" D'Artagnan began, irately. Before he could finish, Athos squarely punched Aramis in the face.

The vicious attack took them all by surprise. Aramis stumbled backward against the opposite wall, one hand going to his bruised eye while the other waved at the guards who had taken a step forward. "No," he gasped. "No, it's alright."

"It isn't," Porthos insisted quietly as Adelina rushed to catch Aramis. "Nothin here is alright." She positioned herself between them, one hand on her pistol. Porthos inwardly dared her to pull it out. But Athos just stood there, fists clenched and eyes wide with fury.

"If you were anyone- _anyone_ else- I would put a bullet between your eyes," he growled. "What the _hell_ was that?!"

"A trick!" Aramis hissed. "It was _a trick_ , Athos! His children aren't here!" Porthos felt relief wash over him, quickly followed by a keen sense of betrayal and rage.

"Who was that screaming then?" D'Artagnan hissed.

Aramis straightened, rubbing his sore cheek. Porthos hoped he would be bruised for _years._ He gestured for them to follow. Reluctantly, the four of them obeyed, trailing Aramis through a series of tunnels and hallways until they reached a room above the prisoners.

The torches on the walls illuminated smears of red along the stone ground and Porthos inhaled a sharp breath. But the room itself was barren of anything save a table and four chairs. On that table, a few plates had been set out with cheese, bread, plump grapes and chicken. It wasn't a King's feast, but it was better than what Porthos was given.

A woman sat on one end of the table, smiling at two skinny children as they giggled hysterically. "Do we do it again?" The little girl whispered giddily, gripping the woman's legs.

The woman patted her head, leaning down to press a finger to her lips. Her bright green eyes glittered with glee. "Hush, hush _Cherie!_ In a moment. We have to wait for the signal," the woman looked up at their entrance, and grinned when she saw Aramis. "Ah, there you are Rene! Is it done, then?" She asked.

"Adelina!" The boy cried, happily. He scampered from his chair, and threw his arms around Adelina's waist, followed a minute later by the girl. Adelina chuckled and knelt to inquire after their good health.

"Were they good for you, Elodie?" Aramis inquired, watching the exchange fondly. The woman- Elodie, apparently- stood gracefully. Short hair flowed at the base of her neck, auburn curls twisting teasingly over ample breasts. The red dress she wore did nothing to hide them either, though Porthos could see dirt staining the bottom. She strode over to grab Aramis's chin in her hands, examining the bruise on his cheek with pert lips.

"How'd you get this, Rene?" she wondered.

Aramis smiled at her. "No worries, _cherie_. A slight," he glanced at Athos. "Misunderstanding. Were they good?" Elodie stepped back, standing akimbo. She turned affectionate eyes to the children, who were chatting with Adelina eagerly.

"Yes. They're very good children. Sweethearts like you. They've earned this meal," she told him. Aramis chuckled as the children swiveled at the word meal. Porthos's heart dropped when he noticed their torn clothes and dirt encrusted feet.

Orphans. Probably from the Court of Miracles.

"Can we work for you again, Monsieur?" The boy asked. "We had fun today with Elodie!" Aramis chuckled and pulled two small bags from his weapon's pouch.

"Probably. We'll come find you if its needed. In the meantime, take this as a token of my gratitude for your hard work today," he said, giving them the small pouches. Porthos heard the jingle of coins. The children's eyes grew wide with delight.

"Thank you! Thank you, Monsieur!" The boy cried, eyes twinkling with tears as he peered into the money bag. Aramis only waved them out of the door.

"Go. Take care of yourselves. Buy some candy for you and your friends. Thibault will make sure you get home safely," he told them. The two children kissed Elodie goodbye, waved once more at Adelina, before scampering away with grins.

"So… Orphans?" D'Artagnan asked, dumbfounded.

Aramis nodded. "Yes. Adelina found them pick pocketing a Nobleman today. We offered them a job playing 'the scream game,'" he explained. "They're the children you heard down there. When Adelina gives the signal, Elodie encourages them to scream. Sometimes by tickling them silly, sometimes by just yelling with them. There is a crack in the floor of this room. You can hear everything downstairs in the prison cell."

"Mathias doesn't know his own children's voices?" Porthos asked suspiciously.

Aramis shrugged. "Maybe not. I imagine he hasn't seen them in years. Nevertheless, a few minutes of hearing children plead, and as a parent, you begin to wonder. Then, that wonder turns into fear, and fear turns into gut-wrenching, all-consuming terror. Believe me," Aramis's eyes clouded with sadness. "I know. Mathias listened to it sporadically for hours, alone and without sleep. In the dark, and without context, didn't it sound like they were in mortal agony?"

Porthos nodded cautiously. "A trick of the mind. I would never bring another man's children into this kind of place, Porthos. No matter what has changed, that will never be something I condone. But others have and will use that advantage. There is a reason Rene is infamous, you know. It is because I am considered one of the cruelest men to ever walk the Earth," Aramis shrugged.

Athos scowled. "What you did _was_ cruel, Aramis. No matter if it wasn't real. You made that man believe his children were being _tortured._ It's not right," he bit out. Aramis gave him an exasperated look.

"And would you rather I had beaten him? Put him on the rack, perhaps? Men like him would laugh at that kind of persuasion. They're prepared for it. And this man wasn't a low-down common criminal. He's like a dog, trained and loyal to his masters. This is the only way…"

"No. This is the _coward's_ way. What would you have done had he not caved? Fooled him into thinking his children were dead?"

"And then tortured him, yes." At Athos's dark look, Aramis threw his hands up. "And this is why I don't tell you anything. Never happy, are you?"

"What happens when he discovers you were tricking him?" Porthos demanded.

Aramis's mouth pinched at the edges. "He won't. He'll be dead."

D'Artagnan was incredulous. "You're going to kill him?"

Adelina's brows shot up. "He's a Spanish spy! What did you think was going to happen to him?!" She pointed out.

Athos took a step forward. "That isn't in your authority to do! We can trade him for some of our own prisoners of war!" Elodie's head swiveled between the two irate parties, dark brows furrowed with confusion.

"You want to leave him alive so that he can escape or be rescued?"

"I want you to remember who you are!" Porthos growled, shoving past Athos to stare his friend in the eye. "You're an honorable man. You're a Musketeer. Not an executioner, or a… A torturer! 'Mis, you've gotta know that _this,"_ he gestured to the dankness of their surroundings, the subtle sound of wailing and sobbing in the distance. "Isn't right. It isn't you!"

"I've said it once, Porthos, and I will say it again: I'm sorry I'm not who you want me to be," Aramis choked out. "But like it or not, this is what I _do_!"

"We'll see," Athos interrupted gravely. He pinned Aramis with a resolute stare. "Treveille will hear about this," Aramis snorted.

"I'm _terrified,_ Athos. Truly," he drawled. Athos looked ready to punch Aramis a second time. Instead, he swiveled on his heel and fairly stomped from the room. D'Artagnan gave Aramis a disgusted look before following.

Adelina and Aramis exchanged a glance. She shrugged. He jerked his head after them. In the next moment, Adelina was gone and Porthos stood alone with his best friend.

"You know," he whispered. "Before we killed him, Rochefort went to his grave swearing that you'd become a monster. A psychotic murderer. I never believed him, but the man I see now," Porthos shook his head. "Fits the description perfectly," Aramis looked momentarily gutted, but that expression was quickly replaced by calm.

"There's a reason I won't don the pauldron," he replied, sadly.

"You don't have to do this."

"Oh, Porthos," Aramis whispered. "It's too late. This is what I do, and there is no changing now. I know you can't understand it, but… Let Aramis go. The man you knew is gone," Porthos felt a solid lump in his throat, choking him.

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"Hmm," Porthos sighed, turning to leave, saddened beyond words. "So you've said. You should know, if it's true," he brushed the other man's shoulder as he passed. "Then I will avenge him."


	15. Chapter 15

Treveille hadn't exactly been happy to see them. Porthos didn't blame the Minister. After all, the three of them had effectively woken him in the wee hours of morning, banging on his door like titans and hollering when that failed to work. He had come from his room, a pistol pointed in Porthos's face, dressed in his night gown.

He had at least donned a robe in the time since Athos had first requested a moment of his time, polite enough to address the King himself. Now, Aramis sat in front of him, looking much like a child forced to sit through a boring lecture. It made Porthos's blood boil. He wanted to punch that smug look off Aramis's face since they had entered the dungeons. He was a bit miffed at Athos for doing it first.

When Athos's report was finished, Treveille blinked owlishly. "Did you get any information?" He asked bluntly, eyes darting from Athos's steaming countenance to Aramis's stony expression.

Athos's eyes widened. Porthos stiffened and D'Artagnan gasped. Aramis nodded. " _Minister,"_ Athos growled through clenched teeth. "That is not the issue at hand here," Treveille arched a brow in Athos's direction, surprised.

"Aramis managed to capture an assassin without being detected, obtain information bloodlessly _and_ gave some orphans of Paris a good meal for the night. What's the issue?" He asked, blankly.

"He made a man think his children were being tortured!"

Treveille nodded, thoughtfully. "That _is_ a tad much," he told Aramis, who shrugged smugly. Porthos stared at his old captain, hardly daring to believe what he was hearing. Did Treveille really condone this kind of behavior? "But what did you get?"

"Miguel and his forces are hiding in the bell of Notre Dame."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Very much so. We can't execute a full-scale attack without something being damaged, or someone, pointedly," Aramis glanced at them, eyes twinkling. "My friends also disagreed with my use of civilian information," he confided.

Treveille chuckled. "Your friends are honorable, and possibly have more sense than you," he suggested lightly.

Were they _joking_ about this?

Aramis dipped his head respectfully. "Oh, most assuredly," he agreed. "Hopefully, Miguel doesn't know I captured one of his own. If he does, then we'd storm Notre Dame for naught. And we'd be back where we started."

"A bad idea," Treveille considered.

"Very."

"He's probably left traps up there, too," Adelina added from her spot at Aramis's right side. "He could take out half our forces if he's so inclined. It'd be safer to ascertain if he knows before we head out."

Treveille nodded. "Ask around the city. Are you having your spies infiltrate his ranks?"

Adelina shook her head, swiping a strand of hair from her face. "It's impossible. Miguel hand chooses his men from loyal Spanish reserves. It would take years- and quite a bit of planning- to get anywhere close to him," she stated. Porthos wondered when she'd become the expert.

"A pity. Nevertheless, what's this I hear about someone attacking the Louvre?"

"They're dead."

"How'd they get in?"

"Through the tunnels. I blocked them," Treveille nodded, pleased, and leaned back in his seat.

"Very well. And your spy? Have you executed him yet?"

"Athos seemed squeamish at the idea." Athos spluttered indignantly. Porthos had never seen him so at a loss before. He too, was shocked into silence. What kind of game was Treveille playing right now?

Had he lost his mind in the five years since they'd been home? _Constance didn't mention that he'd gone senile,_ Porthos thought, scowling. Constance had harangued them on a variety of topics, including the current state of the monarchy and Paris. It wasn't like her to leave out such glaring facts as Treveille's insanity.

"I see. How dangerous is it to keep him alive?"

"Very."

"Then you have my permission to shoot him."

"Minister!" D'Artagnan cried. Aramis smiled.

"Thank you, sir," he replied.

"You are dismissed. You've done well, but," Treveille held up an admonishing finger. "Athos was right about one thing. I trust your judgement in matters of espionage, but the protection of the crown and this city is beneath my and Athos's jurisdiction. You are to do _nothing_ without at least informing us, understood?" Aramis set his lips in a firm line, as if holding back words of protest. He held Treveille's gaze, defiance clear in his crossed arms. Porthos was about to reach down and take him by the scruff of the neck when Treveille leaned forward.

"I can imagine what you must have gone through these past five years. I know you acted alone, saying nothing, trusting no one, because that was how you survived," his next glance was to Adelina as well. She set a hand on Aramis's shoulder, as if to hold herself up, her gaze drawn inexplicably to Treveille's.

"But you aren't _out there,"_ Treveille waved vaguely, to include the entire world in his statement. "Anymore, my friends. You're here, and _here,_ we must work together if we're to survive. Whether we live or die, we do so together, alright?" Aramis blinked rapidly.

Porthos was shocked when his friend inhaled a shuddering breath and finally relaxed, swiping an arm across his eyes. Adelina looked away, biting her bottom lip. "Alright," Aramis whispered.

"Good. Then off you go. Let me speak to my perplexed Musketeers before they shoot _me_ next," he smiled once, letting them know that all was forgiven. _Wonder if he expects us to do that,_ Porthos thought.

The immediate response, echoed fiercely in his soul, was a resounding _no._

 _Hell no._

"Of course," Aramis stood, dawning his hat gracefully. He nodded to Adelina and the two of them left the room quietly. Porthos could feel Aramis's gaze burning through the side of his head, but he refused to return the look.

The moment the door had closed behind them, Athos dropped into the vacated seat, landing with a dull thud of discontent. It was almost childish, and if Porthos weren't so intent on being angry at Aramis, he would take a moment to smile.

Once, Athos's heart had been a double bolted door. To even show an ounce of emotion through his body movements was… Unprecedented before the war and should have worsened after. But leadership had done something to their Athos, and it made Porthos proud to stand behind him. D'Artagnan flocked him from the other side, mouth set into a grim line of foreboding.

Before the war, the lad had only looked Treveille in the eye with blind devotion. Now, there was respect, but it was the kind of respect that came from self-awareness. D'Artagnan did not look up to Treveille- or any of them- he looked _at_ them. Eye to eye, man to man. Their bulwark of strength.

"What just happened?" Athos inquired calmly.

"He gets to torment a man, disobey Athos, endanger innocent people, _cost_ two men their lives and you let him go _without censure_?" D'Artagnan translated, his voice rising with incredulous fury.

Treveille sighed, stroking his beard. "What happened when _you_ censured him?" He asked.

"He ignored us!" Porthos growled. _Like we were **children** ,_ he added inwardly.

"Exactly. Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan- you are some of the most honorable and benign men I know. You've seen hell these past five years, and still come out with your humanity intact. You're soldiers through and through, and Aramis… Isn't anymore. You fought the gruesome war on the frontlines, face to face. Aramis fought a different war- the shadowed one."

"And that's an excuse?"

"No, it's _a reason_. Things work differently when you're both in enemy territory and alone. If one of _you_ were captured, someone would come for you. If you couldn't stand alone, someone would grab you. If a mission failed, you bore the failure together. Your brotherhood sustained you. Aramis had nothing but his wits, his pistol and I'm sure Adelina, but even then, he's as much her protector and teacher as a friend. The two of them are used to censure, violence, cruelty, meanness. They take joy in being… good at their work, as you can tell. If you place your accusations on top of their own guilt, they just stash it with the rest and move on. One day, they might snap. But I'd be more afraid of what that could mean for _everyone,_ not just a Spanish prisoner," he said.

Porthos sighed. "I still don't understand."

"Try kindness. Try compassion. Try understanding that though you were at war too, Aramis will not have the same wounds. His will be different. His will probably hurt you, and vice versa. The important thing is to never let him forget he is not alone." Porthos looked at D'Artagnan, whose expression mirrored his own.

"All due respect sir," D'Artagnan began, shaking his head. "That's not good enough. We understand being compassionate, but then there's what's right. Aramis is choosing to do wrong," he argued.

"Besides," Porthos went on. " _Rene_ says that Aramis is gone. That he really is dead and _he's_ someone else now," his eyes burned at the memory.

 _"I've said it once, Porthos, and I will say it again: I'm sorry I'm not who you want me to be…. But like it or not, this is what I do!"_

Along the edges of his mouth and eyes, Treveille's skin went taut, as if the tension in his body were bone deep, instead of just in the muscles. "I suspect that's true," he replied softly.

"So that begs the question," Athos murmured. _"Why the hell_ would we do what you're saying?"

Treveille leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Because maybe you can learn to love who he is now as much as you loved him as he was then," he whispered.

Portos recoiled from the idea of loving someone who could be so flippant with lives, so manipulative as to destroy men's minds. "Not likely," he grunted. Treveille snickered, as if he had just said a joke.

"Ah, but you _do_ love him. You wouldn't be angry at someone you didn't love."

Silence. "I rest my case. Besides, it'll be good for him to learn to love who you all have become, too. Perhaps I can get my _Inseperables_ back. That's why I'm assigning The Musketeers to help with capturing the assassins in Notre Dame. Aramis won't like it, but he needs to learn how to play well with others again," that didn't sound like fun, but at least Treveille was giving them command over something again.

Athos looked only a little mollified. "How do you know this will work?"

"I don't, but what I know doesn't matter. What matters is that we do our duties… And stay together. Go, go!" He shooed them away, yawning. When he stood, Porthos knew that there was nothing more to be said, though the words burned the tip of his tongue, hungry to be released. Nevertheless, he knew it was not Treveille who he wanted to scream at anyway. It was a certain former best friend of his.

They saluted Treveille halfheartedly as the other man retired to his bed chamber. The three of them remained in the room for a long moment, stewing in their individual thoughts, before Athos sighed. "Let's go," he grumbled. He glanced at D'Artagnan. "Your knee?"

"Right now, my frustration is dulling the pain," D'Artagnan griped.

"I have wine at the Garrison that will dull it better," Athos told him.

Porthos snickered softly and nodded as Athos stood and journeyed back into the empty and dark halls of the Louvre. The guard to his right nodded toward the stairs when they excited, eyes wide. "Been standin there like a spirit, or a devil," he whispered apprehensively. "Friend of yours?" Porthos sighed, and as one they glared at the outline standing beside the stairs. Porthos didn't have to see him fully to know it was Aramis. He was chewing on that damned grass again.

"What are you doing here?" D'Artagnan growled. "Eavesdropping?"

"Not tonight," Aramis stepped from the gloom, and Porthos could see how he would appear like a spirit. The former defiance of his stance had bled out, leaving an apologetic sheepishness in its place, like a ghost who had been caught haunting the wrong house. "I'm here to make sure you aren't killed on your way to the Garrison," Porthos harrumphed. That was a poor excuse at reconciliation if he had ever seen one.

Athos scowled. "Do you ever _think_?" He snapped. "What if the queen had seen you here? Why not have one of your lackeys do it?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Because _someone_ has been dodging all my… _Lackeys,_ as you called them…" He pointed out, falling into step beside them as they headed down the stairs and into the early morning dark.

"You too, then?" Porthos asked his captain. Athos gave a mild half shrug, bored.

"Besides, the Queen is asleep with a migraine," Aramis's eyes softened with sadness. "I hear she gets them regularly these days."

Porthos refused to feel pity. Aramis shouldn't be hearin anything about the Queen. It would only encourage him, and they all knew where _that_ led… He kicked at a rat that scuttled across their path, eyeing them with glowing red eyes. "Hate your spies following me about," he grunted. "I ain't a child and I don't need no nursemaid," the rat screeched and scuttled away.

"That's why I'm here. So you feel less like a child, and I can get some sleep tonight."

"And where _do_ you sleep these days?" Athos wondered acerbically. "You don't have a room in the Garrison, and your old apartment was given to someone else," Aramis shrugged.

"Believe it or not, I don't sleep much. Sylvia usually gives Adelina a safe space to hunker in the night. Elodie lets me stay in the brothel's attic sometimes," Porthos barked a sour laugh.

"A _brothel_! What's this? Thought you didn't like those places," he pointed out.

D'Artagnan stumbled over a stray cobblestone, and they reached out as a unit to grasp his arm. He shook Aramis's hand away as if he had been burned. "Desperate times, my friend. Besides, I don't use the brothel's _services_ ," Porthos snorted. Somehow, he doubted Aramis had changed _that_ much. He still loved women down to the bone, probably. "I use the attic to sleep. Elodie watches out for me…."

"How in the hell did you make friends with whores already? You've been in the city for _three_ days," Athos pointed out.

Aramis shook his head. "I wish you wouldn't call her that!"

"Sensitive, is she?"

"She's _a survivor,_ Porthos," Aramis corrected sharply. "A refugee. She used to be the simple wife of a cobbler, but when he died in the war, she sold the business and left town to live with her parents. She was caught and... _B_ _rutalized_ by French soldiers, and upon returning home was beaten by her father for _infidelity_ ," his lips curled in a vicious sneer.

Porthos's stomach clenched. He had heard that story all too often while on the front, the abuses and misuse of power perpetrated by men who were angry and senseless. Fathers who worried more for position and reputation than the lives of their children.

He hated that story.

"She ran away and became a prostitute to sustain herself. I met her three years ago. She helped me… In a time of great need, and I told her to try and make her way in Paris. She followed my advice, though not in quite the way I might have liked. She's a good woman," Aramis paused in the middle of his rant to take a deep breath. "So yes, I wish you wouldn't call her a whore. She's a _survivor,"_ he finished.

Porthos's heart had softened throughout the narrative. This passion, the fiery understanding and quest to help sounded so much like Aramis and he had missed it. Missed Aramis's brilliant light in a world of dark. He was just having a hard time reconciling that light with the darkness he had witnessed a few hours before.

"She could stay at the Garrison, you know," he butted in, looking at Athos to see if he agreed. He nodded. "You both could. Instead of sleeping there." Aramis shook his head, smiling a little. In the dark, the action looked more sinister than affectionate.

"You'll need something to offer the new recruits! I would only take up unnecessary space, and Elodie would rather lop off her right arm than accept charity."

"But isn't it unwise for you to be there?" Porthos inquired logically.

"Porthos, your concern is touching, but I'm fine…"

"Oh, no, not concern," Porthos interrupted quickly. "Just wondering who's going to complicate our lives if you're not around," Aramis pretend gasped, placing a hand against his heart as they neared the Garrison gates.

"I'm not that complicated!" He cried.

"Oh, yeah? Want proof? Athos?"

"You're practically _a penance_ ," Athos replied, plucking the grass from between Aramis's teeth irritably. Aramis gave him a hurt look.

"D'Artagnan?"

"My life was less complicated when we were _at war_." Aramis cringed guiltily. Porthos felt a surge of satisfaction. _Good, now he knows what it's like,_ he thought savagely. Treveille's appeal for compassion had seemed a little too lenient for his tastes. Aramis's next statement made his anger melt.

"Just another reason not to have me sleeping at the Garrison. I can't be who you want me to be," Damn it. Why couldn't he ever stay mad at Aramis? He was as pliable as clay in the man's hands, subject to have his emotions twisted and warped without warning. They may as well have been married.

"There's a pact we made, during the war. After your death," D'Artagnan began, as easily as if it were a business transaction, and was that what their brotherhood was now? A simple matter of duty and comradery? A dance of profit and pain?

 _What happened to us?_

"No more secrets. Something that happens to one of us, happens to all of us. Maybe you can't be who you were, but you can still be one of us," he suggested lightly.

Aramis pushed open the gates, exhaling heavily as he indicated they should go first. "I'm afraid Rene the assassin isn't very… _Trusting._ "

None of them moved a muscle to go inside. "Well, then he'll have to get used to it," D'Artagnan supposed, a slow smile building on his face. Porthos grinned too. Business transaction his _boot._

 _"Ah, but you do love him. You wouldn't be angry at someone you didn't love."_

Aramis chuckled. "You're not giving up, are you?"

"Eventually," Athos acceded. "We will. When hell freezes over and pigs fly."

"So, tomorrow?"

"At mid-day, yes," they smiled at each other, spirits buoyed by the meager joke. For a minute, it was as if nothing had changed and life itself opened beneath their feet, as boundless and honorable and dashing as ever. There had never been a war, a Rochefort, or a time lapse of five hellish years.

The moment ended quicker than he would have liked. Porthos saw the light dim in his friend's eyes as they, too, realized that all those things had happened. Reality never waited for its pawns to understand the motions of the game. Then, Porthos sighed.

"Look, I know you have your ways, and we don't have to agree on them all the time, but… Just let us try another way first, ok? Let's just try something that doesn't include complete mental annihilation. That doesn't work, you do what you want, deal?" Compromise, he had learned, was a sure fix for most things.

To his surprise, Aramis did not hesitate to accept the peace terms. "Deal," he agreed, softly.

"And no more secrets," D'Artagnan added. Aramis's mouth tightened worriedly. Porthos rolled his eyes.

"No more… Secrets that endanger _France,_ eh?" Aramis nodded reluctantly. Porthos decided to take the small victory. He had a feeling they would all need to make concessions soon enough.

"Good," a hesitant pause. "Did you really shoot that spy?"

"No," Aramis admitted. "He's still alive. Bound and watched day and night, but alive. I decided you were right about _that,_ at least. When this is all over, we can use him to bring a good Frenchman home to his family." Porthos gave a start. D'Artagnan's brows vanished beneath his bangs and Athos's replying smile was a touch proud.

"Even though Treveille said you could?"

Aramis laughed, genuinely this time. "If you haven't noticed, my friend, I don't take to authority well these days!" He snickered, waving a careless hand.

"You don't say," Athos replied, but his voice oddly affectionate. Aramis bumped his shoulder lightly, and grinned when the movement was reciprocated.

"Yeah," Porthos breathed, thinking of all the orders they had… _Skirted_ the past few years. "Us either."

"Well, it seems we've all changed then! Maybe, we can just… Get to know each other, as we are now?" Aramis asked, hesitantly. Then, a moment later, "Please?"

"Only if you start by sleeping in the Garrison tonight," Athos declared. Aramis ducked his head shyly.

"You strike a hard bargain, captain," he sighed. "But I will submit to your terms," his eyes glittered. Athos clapped him on the shoulder, leaving his hand on one shoulder so he could forcefully guide Aramis inside. They headed towards the stairs, as they had a million times before.

"Good man," he decided.

"Smart choice," D'Artagnan corrected. "Constance would have had your head had she learned you chose to sleep in a brothel attic instead of with us," They chuckled together, as they stood in the middle of the courtyard.

Seven years ago, today, they had stood here, a foursome linked by their blades and mutual protectiveness of a loved one. Porthos could feel the notches in the wood of the table where their swords had connected for the first time, slammed down with brutal force. They hadn't known what the future held then, the trials that would appear, the horrors and mistakes that would be made. How could they?

And yet, Porthos had a feeling they wouldn't have cared _had_ they known.

Porthos reached out, set a hand on Aramis's shoulder as the first of dawn's rays peeked over the Garrison gates. Athos groaned, raising a hand to shield himself from the reality of _work that had yet to be finished._ D'Artagnan laughed.

"You know," Porthos began. "You keep tellin us Aramis is dead. But I don't think he is. I think you're chainin im up in there," he pressed a hand to his chest, and smiled roguishly. "And if it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna set him free."

Athos stepped up to set a hand over Porthos's. " _We_ will," he vowed.

D'Artagnan added his own hand. "All of us," he agreed. Aramis looked up at them, eyes sad and dark in the dim light of dawn. But there was a sparkle there that had been missing before.

"Oh, brothers," he breathed, setting his hand on theirs, and squeezing. "I don't think you're right. But you do so give me hope."


	16. Chapter 16

**_Three days Later:_**

 _This corner has a beautiful vantage point,_ Aramis realized as his gaze hopped from pedestrian to pedestrian. They swarmed from the doors of Notre Dame like a small herd of deer, ambling carelessly into the streets of Paris. Laughing, talking, breathing, living, being.

From his post a few feet away, half covered by the alleyway where he had decided to hide, he examined clothes, faces, memorizing each detail. Around him, the city's normal bustle was beginning to amplify as the merchants along the streets reopened their stands to the churchgoers. Though he wore a long cloak to hide the weapons stashed along his belt, and his hat was pulled low over his head, he kept one hand on his pistol.

No information had come in. It was anyone's guess if Miguel knew they were coming, and that made a cold sweat break out along Aramis's neck. His gaze locked unto a particular passerby, also cloaked and head bowed so as not to be recognized.

He and D'Artagnan exchanged a nod. No one knew if the citizens had been endangered either, so he and Constance had volunteered to sit through the service to keep an eye on proceedings. She had an arm around a pregnant woman, helping her to descend the steps carefully. Aramis smiled at the simple kindness. It was a strange feeling, understanding that there was a small legion prepared to fight this battle with him. He was accustomed to Adelina.

Speaking of which…

A solid warmth slid into place beside him. "Everyone is nearly out," Athos informed him. "And my men are in position," Aramis nodded, biting his tongue. He had long since known the location of each Musketeer. He had discovered them two hours earlier when he arrived before they did, but no use in telling Athos these things now. He would only assume Aramis did not trust his command.

Which was a lie. Aramis trusted Athos's leadership; he had a healthy wariness of Miguel's.

"As are mine," he tipped his hat to Thibault, who winked and jerked his head to the church in a silent inquiry. Aramis shook his head.

 _Not yet._

Everyone had to be safely away from Notre Dame. He wouldn't risk innocent lives. A glint caught his eye, and he glanced into the windows of the bakery across the street. Above, Sylvie and Elodie had their muskets primed and ready. Constance would join them soon. Any of Miguel's assassins who tried to run would be picked off from above. "Where's your shadow?" Athos murmured.

Aramis gave a half shrug. "She'll be here."

"She's part of the plan."

"She'll _be_ here, Thos," he repeated. He pushed himself from the wall. "I'm going to see if everyone is out," he declared before Athos could ask questions. "Wait for my signal!" he called. He could feel Athos's glare between his shoulder blades and felt a spike of guilt for his secrecy. But today, it was not his secrets he was protecting.

The doors of Notre Dame creaked open when he pressed against them. The pews were completely empty, the balcony above as intricate as ever, and twice as lovely without the layers of citizens clamoring in the seats.

There was only one supplicant, kneeling on the ground before a small candle. Her cloak was spread over the floor, ripples of silky water emanating in waves of grief. For once, she had undone her hair, allowing it to flow freely down her back in curly waves. Her hands were clasped tightly before her heart, a thin row of beads dangling from her fingers. The ranks of other candles stood, shining, in the dim room. Aramis closed the door behind him and walked down the aisle.

Adelina's lips moved in a silent prayer. There were tear tracks on her face, a silent testament to grief. Aramis's heart throbbed for her suffering.

He knelt at her side, silently, and bowed his head to add his own prayers. A few minutes passed before Adelina's whispers died away. She sniffled, hands falling back into her lap helplessly. Aramis wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing her on the forehead. " _Hermanita?"_ He asked, softly. Adelina did not look away from the floor, her fists clenched around the beads.

"I managed to forget, until this morning," she replied, voice hoarse. "When I woke up, I was crying, and I couldn't understand why. Then I remembered," she sighed, bowing her head.

Aramis nodded, squeezing her closer to his side. "I'll be ready to perform my duty," Adelina assured him. Aramis shook his head quickly, pressing his nose into her hair. It was so soft and coiled, like the undergrowth of grapevines his father had had. It felt like safety, like warmth and it reminded him of his mother _so much._

"I never had any doubt," he hushed her. "I wish we didn't have to do this today. You deserve time to mourn. Once this is over, you can go," he offered.

"I won't leave you," no, she never had.

"You won't be. I'm coming with you. Athos and Treveille can handle any prisoners we may have, and the Musketeers will clean up. I won't leave you alone. Not today," when her shoulders hitched, he gently cupped the back of her head as she buried her face in his shoulder.

He cradled her with every bit of strength he possessed. "Not _ever_ ," he whispered. Adelina whimpered, but when he grabbed her hand and squeezed, she returned the gesture. Shuffling to her feet, she swiped away the evidence of tears on her face and tucked the beads back into her chemise. Aramis stared up at her, smiling with all the love in his heart.

"You're so strong," he breathed. "Stronger than I ever have been." Adelina's lips perked into a half smile.

"How sweet!" Adelina swiveled on her heel, pistol already aimed. Aramis sighed and got to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his knees. He was getting old.

"Miguel," he greeted the man who had jumped down from the balcony.

"I knew we'd meet in Paris," Miguel boasted, smiling. He stopped a good distance away, glancing at Adelina's pistol with eyebrows raised as if to ask _am I supposed to be scared now?_ "It's good to see you, as always, Sombra," he called. "Did I interrupt something?"

"Not at all," Adelina replied, steadily. Aramis felt a surge of pride, stepping beside her as the shadows of the church began to break away from their corners. Brandishing swords and pistols. He looked around, yawned.

"You knew we were coming," he guessed.

Miguel shrugged. "You kidnapped and somehow managed to get my location from Mathias. Is he dead?"

"Maybe."

Miguel's eyes steeled with hatred. "He deserves to be. He betrayed his country," he snarled. "I also know you have a small army of Musketeers, they've been surrounding the area for hours now. I'm surprised. It's not like you to bring others into your battles."

"Believe me, it wasn't _my_ idea. I assume you also have men surrounding them, probably with cannons?"

"Why Rene!" Miguel pressed a hand to his heart theatrically. "Isn't it incredible how well we know each other? It's enough to make me swoon!" Aramis hitched his thumbs into his pockets, shaking his head at the other man's dramatism.

"I tend to have that effect on people," he agreed dryly. "Listen, Miguel, this is the only chance I offer you, and it is borne from mutual understanding. Surrender. Surrender or die here," he told him. Miguel laughed with more bitterness than he should have owned for his years.

"Is that why you came? Out of mutual understanding? I'm hurt, Rene. I've seen your version of understanding," his eyes darkened, so much so that it made Aramis's heart clench painfully. _He_ had done this. "When I stood over my brother Alvaro, and watched him die a _slow,_ painful death," He hissed. "You ruined my life that day. I will see justice done. I will see your beloved Musketeers _burn,"_ Aramis rolled his eyes.

"He talks too much," he observed to Adelina.

"Always has," she agreed distastefully.

"He's sensitive."

"I imagine if he weren't a cold-blooded murderer, he'd have made a good court jester. They like to cry in their acts, see?"

Aramis chuckled, winked at Miguel, and both suddenly dove to the ground. He threw himself over Adelina, covering her ears. "Now, Porthos!" He shouted. He hadn't finished yelling when the sound of bullets rang out from the balcony above.

It appeared as though their distraction had worked.

"Fighting in a church!?" Miguel gasped, swerving to the side to avoid Porthos's well placed shot. "Blasphemy!" Some of his men had done the same, hiding behind pews and in the balcony above as they returned fire.

"Time to go," Adelina murmured, wiggling beneath him. He rolled unto his side, allowing her to crawl toward the back of the church.

"They're trying to force us outside! Don't let them!" Miguel screamed. Aramis heard screams echo from outside, followed quickly by the sound of cannons firing. He bit back a curse. Miguel had a point. Fighting in a church defied every law of religious ethics his mother had distilled in him.

"Good of you to join us," Porthos growled when he crawled to his side, taking up his spot beside D'Artagnan and Adelina behind the candles. "You had to taunt him, did you? Just _had_ to recklessly endanger your lives by makin fun of the man with guns trained on ya," he grumbled.

Aramis flashed him a cocky grin. "All part of the plan, dear Porthos!"

"Yeah? Your plans are _stupid."_

Athos rolled into place beside them. There was a long cut along his arm, droplets of blood flowing down his arm from the spot. Still, his grip on his pistols were strong. "I thought it was witty," he gasped.

"See? Thank you, Athos! What happened to your arm?" Aramis reached for him, but Athos pulled away.

"Not now, Aramis."

"You're bleeding!"

"You're both bloody _idiots_ ," Porthos added.

"Can we discuss this later?" D'Artagnan wondered, cringing as a candle beside him collapsed, shattering against the stone floor. "The cannons aren't stopping," he pointed out.

"Give them a minute, D'Artagnan," Aramis advised him. "It will take some time. Ah!" he cried as pieces of wood were thrown into their faces by a ricocheting bullet. Porthos growled something demeaning beneath his breath.

"Do we _have_ time?" he rasped. Across from them, one of the Musketeers dropped with a short scream. Aramis made the sign of the cross, hoping this sin might be forgiven at _some_ point in his life. He doubted his mother would have excused it.

"We can make time," Adelina suggested. Aramis nodded.

"She's right. I'll handle Miguel. The rest of you stick to the plan," Athos reached forward and laid a hand on his shoulder.

" _We'll_ handle Miguel," he corrected determinedly. Aramis shook his head, cupping Athos's cheek momentarily.

"You're still the greatest swordsman I've ever known, _mon ami,_ but your sword arm is bleeding. I can't fight Miguel and worry about you at the same time."

"I'll put on a bandage."

"You'll go _lead your men_ ," Aramis commanded tightly.

"What have we told you about doin things yourself, Mis?" Porthos demanded menacingly. Aramis rolled his eyes, feeling frustration bubble in his chest.

"Oh, for goodness sakes!" Adelina snapped, to his surprise. "It doesn't matter! D'Artagnan, go with him to face Miguel. Athos, lead the men down here in pushing Miguel's forces out, and Porthos, with me. We're taking back the bell of Notre Dame. Everyone happy?" She went on before anyone could answer, digging her fingers into Porthos's arm and hauling him upright.

"Good. You're all bloody idiots." She hissed. The brothers shared a look, and Aramis just shook his head to the unspoken question. _Do as she says._

He was grateful when Porthos only stood silently, slapping D'Artagnan and Athos on the back. He nodded to Aramis, and then he and Adelina were fighting their way to the back of the church.

"Go," Athos stated, squeezing his shoulder. "I trust you."

It was a touching sentiment. Aramis grinned like a maniac. "Miguel!" he yelled over his shoulder. "Come out and fight!" He felt more than heard D'Artagnan unsheathe his blade, and then they were running into the melee.


	17. Chapter 17

When it was over, nearly an hour later, Aramis couldn't erase the glint of betrayal in Miguel's eyes when he had leveled a pistol in his direction.

 _"Surrender," Aramis whispered as D'Artagnan pressed the tip of his sword to the other man's neck. He had easily surpassed Athos as the greatest swordsman Aramis had ever fought beside; but the glow of pure pride and affection in his chest for D'Artagnan was not enough to stifle sadness for Miguel._

 _He could have been a great man. They could have fought together._

 _Miguel only smiled. At his back, The Musketeer forces had blended into Aramis's spy legion. Miguel's cannons had fallen into their grasp minutes earlier. Now, the gaping holes aimed at Miguel's back._

 _Elodie stood behind one, a match held in hand to light the fuse. Her green eyes burrowed into Miguel's form with hatred. His men had already surrendered, their hands raised high above their heads as they beheld the cannons and guns held to their temples._

 _"Do you expect me to beg?" He inquired, calmly._

 _Aramis's heart clenched. "No," D'Artagnan replied, chest heaving. "We expect you to call off your men," Miguel shrugged._

 _"Fine," he replied. "But there are others out there, you know. The Italians, some of my forces. They'll come for me," he stared directly at Aramis, his words causing a shiver to run down his spine. "My brothers will not abandon me," Miguel repeated, softly._

 _"We handled you and your crew well nough," Porthos pointed out as he and Athos appeared behind them, jovially. "Your bell heads are down for the count too," he added._

 _Miguel nodded. "So I figured. Very well. A good soldier knows when to accept defeat. I surrender," he tossed his sword to the ground, raising his hands slowly. D'Artagnan sheathed his blade, grinning. "But this isn't over."_

 _Aramis looked away as Athos pushed his way forward. He began securing rope about Miguel's wrists, cinching it tightly. The Musketeers below marched up to their prisoners to do the same. As Aramis watched them, he swallowed the vomit that slithered up his throat as he wondered if he would have to interrogate this man._

 _He turned away, straight into Elodie. "You alright, love?" She whispered, reaching up to stroke his cheek. He caught her hand, kissed the knuckles gratefully._

 _"I must find Adelina," he breathed. "Take care of things for me here?" Elodie nodded, tossing her musket over one shoulder expertly. Aramis smiled. He and Adelina had been the ones to teach her to yield such a weapon._

 _"Me an Sylvie'll make sure things is done properly," she assured him, the gap between her teeth making the words come out breathy. "Go. Take care of our girl. And don't be so hard on yourself, hm?"_

Adelina had left the window open for him. Aramis sighed as he climbed the stairs, ducking inside. He almost landed on the night stand beside Adelina's bed, missing it by a hairs breadth and only because he spun in time. His eyes landed on his little sister, curled on the bed with her face to the wall.

"Oh, _hermanita,"_ he breathed, seeing her hair undone. It curled about her shoulders and back like the vines of some ancient tree. She had discarded her weapon's belt, and the outer layers of her clothing. She was covered only by leggings and a thin cotton undershirt.

Aramis swung himself into bed beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist. The bed creaked as he did so, the few moldy pillows Sylvie had been able to spare a thin softness against the hard backbone of the bed frame. Though he was grateful for the other woman's help in securing Adelina a roof, he felt anger stir in him at the smallness of the room. It was roughly the size and shape of a storage room.

And she deserved so much more.

"Did Miguel surrender?" Adelina whispered. She clutched the beads to her chest, silent tears streaking down her face.

Aramis wanted to tell her not to worry about such things but knew it would be to no avail. She would worry and obsess unless she knew the truth. " _Si senorita_ ," he replied. "The Musketeers are escorting him to the Chatalet alongside his forces."

"I'm sorry, Rene."

"Shhh," he whispered, stroking her hair. "Don't fret about me right now. How are you?" Her shoulders hitched.

"I keep… I keep seeing them there, _hanging_ ," she cried, as a violent shiver wracked her frame. She felt so small tucked against him like this. Her skin was soft and warm to the touch, not at all the frame of a relentless assassin.

The comparison sent a shudder up his spine, the idea that he had taken this innocent child and exposed her to the darkness of espionage and murder. Aramis knew he relied on Adelina's indomitable strength, her courage and loyalty more than he probably should.

But today wasn't about what _he_ needed.

"It was my fault. I should have gone after them earlier… I should have gone for help instead of hiding…"

"No," he breathed, stricken, rubbing a hand along her arm. She was freezing. Aramis reached for the blanket at the end of her bed, dragging it up and over her. "No, Adelina. You were a child. You didn't know… And they wouldn't think of it as your doing. It wasn't your fault," he hugged her tighter as she began to sob, hitching breaths rattling her form. "It wasn't your fault," he repeated.

"I should have died with them…"

He jerked as if slapped. He knew it was the guilt talking, but even the insinuation of her death was enough to make his soul echo with anguish. He sighed. "I wish you never witnessed what you did, Adelina. I wish they could have lived to see the strong, fearless woman you've become. I wish I could kill the men that took your parents from you, but I am eternally grateful you lived," he pressed his forehead to her shoulder. "So grateful."

She wrapped her hand around his, spinning in bed to bury her face into his chest. He rubbed her shoulders comfortingly, allowing her to weep into his neck. "One day," he whispered to her. "When this is all over, we'll find a home far away. In the forest of Pinon," Adelina huffed a small laugh, familiar with their favorite story.

"It was Athos's mansion, but he won't mind if we steal it," she continued softly.

"You can have all the rooms you'd like, many fine horses…"

"A dog?" She asked, in such a small voice he would have mistaken her for a child if she weren't in his arms. He chuckled and nodded.

"A dog," he promised. "We'll go shooting every morning. We'll have to bring the others, of course," he speculated, thinking of the fit Porthos would throw if he knew they'd gone and _retired_ without him.

"And children," Adelina whispered. "We can bring children from the orphanages across France there, to live and play in the fields. They can have a-" her voice hitched. "A home and a family."

"We will be able to sleep without our pistols hidden beneath our pillows…"

"And our swords tucked away…"

"We can go home," Aramis finished. A sob built in his chest at the dream, so lovely and so close to his grasp he could feel its happiness touching his heart. In his version, Anne was there, her golden hair unbound from the roles of stricture and court.

She danced the Spanish dances in his home. His son would sit in Porthos's lap, giggling at the faces he made. Constance would come in, hauling D'Artagnan by the ear as she scolded him for some trifle or another. Athos would follow, with a gaggle of orphans begging him to show them just _one more sword trick._

And Aramis would sit back and watch his family alive and safe and rejoice in his good fortune. A dream that had kept him sane for five years. _Peace._ Aramis reached for Adelina's hands, wrapping his fingers around her clenched fists, encasing the beads of her father inside his own protection.

He had vowed- years ago- to protect her with his life. Swearing it at the grave of the man and woman who had sired her, but so far it had been reciprocal. They protected each other. Like wolves, or perhaps like siblings.

A tear ran down his cheek. "One day. When this is all over. We'll go home," he assured her, not for the first time.

Adelina looked up, and her pain mirrored his own. "Promise me?"

He smiled. "I promise you," he agreed. Adelina nodded, and pressed her face back into his chest, sniffling.

"I miss them," she admitted. Aramis knew the feeling. He hugged her to him. "Every day. I wonder what they would think of all this. I know Papa would have liked Porthos," she told him.

"Everyone likes Porthos."

"Mama and Sylvie would be great friends. She'd fuss over Athos and D'Artagnan," Aramis chuckled at the picture.

"My mother would have too," he confessed with a pang of remorse. They lapsed into silence then, separated only in thoughts. A few moments later, Aramis tensed as the door to Sylvie's room opened slowly, footsteps pouring in. Adelina heard it too. Her breath hitched.

Aramis squeezed her arms. "Don't worry. It's probably Athos, searching for me," he started to pull away, but Adelina gripped the front of his shirt with sudden desperation, her eyes wide with terror. Aramis laid his palm against her cheek, shaking his head. "I'll be right back, Adelina. I won't leave you alone," he kissed her on the forehead, stroking her hair. Her grip eased.

"Not ever," he repeated, standing. He hurried to the door, feeling her anxious gaze on his back, and closed it. Before him, Athos, Porthos, D'Artagnan, Constance and Sylvie stood in the common room. They all looked up when he entered. Aramis scowled.

"What?" He demanded.

"You vanished," Athos pointed out, brow raising at his vehemence. "We were wondering where you'd gone off too," a not so subtle way of saying he had thought Aramis had left again. He rolled his eyes.

"As you can see, I'm _here_. Satisfied?" he demanded harshly.

"Hey, now," Sylvie broke in, brows furrowed. "Elodie told me Adelina would be havin a hard time of it today. We also came to check up on her. She in there?" She pointed, and Aramis realized he was standing before the door as if guarding it from intruders. He sighed, relaxing a bit.

"She is. I'm sorry," he apologized, taking a few steps into the room. It twisted his heart to be further from Adelina, but he couldn't let her hear this. "Today is the anniversary of her parent's murder," he confided in his friends, in a low voice. Porthos inhaled sharply.

"Oh, dear," Constance murmured, eyes limpid with compassion. "Does she need anything?"

Aramis shook his head. "She's just… I stay with her. It's not good for her to be alone," he turned to Athos. "I'd be grateful if you could take care of the prisoners for awhile, Captain," he said. Athos nodded.

"Of course. Have you checked her wound?" He wondered. Aramis felt a thrill of apprehension.

"Wound?" he echoed dumbly.

Porthos stepped up. "Yeah, that's another reason we came knockin. She was stabbed in the leg, 'Mis. She disappeared before I could see to it me'self. Did you not…?" Aramis was already swiveling on a heel, thundering into Adelina's room hurriedly.

"Adelina!" He called. She was still curled where he had left her, but the hand that had clutched her father's beads was now lax. He could see a red stain blooming from beneath the leggings on her right leg.

He paled. "Adelina!" He cried again, skidding to his knees beside her. He ripped the legging fabric away, exposing a sloppy bandage on her lower thigh, near the vital artery behind the knee. Aramis's heart skipped a beat when he squeezed her ankle and got no response. She was so pale… "Damn it all!" Aramis growled. He swiveled around when the floor creaked, chest heaving. The others stood in the doorway.

"I'll fetch boiling water," Constance volunteered at once, seeing his expression.

"I've got bandages," D'Artagnan said, at almost the same time.

He reached into his weapon's belt, unhooking a roll of cloth from a pouch. Aramis nodded, leaning back to start unwrapping the bandage from her thigh. "I can get needle and thread. I suspect someone will have to do needlework," Sylvie guessed. He nodded absentmindedly, noting that blood was spurting out from where he had already unwrapped the bandage. An open wound, the cut was long and deep. It must have been painful.

 _What was she **thinking?**_ He wondered.

"Aramis," Porthos was there, a hand on his shoulder. "I've got it. Your hands are shaking, brother. Let me help," Aramis looked down, realized his friend was right. Still, his heart rebelled at the idea of anyone else taking over a duty that was _his._

"Hey," Porthos called when he leaned over his sister, protectively. "I'll treat her like I would one of you, huh? I'll be careful. Trust me," _I do._ He did. Aramis nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat and stepped away. Porthos took his place, carefully unraveling the bandage. D'Artagnan stepped up, pressing bandages to Adelina's leg to staunch the blood flow.

Aramis scrambled back to the head of the bed, gently stroking Adelina's hair from her face. "You brave, stupid girl," he muttered. Athos knelt beside him, staring into Adelina's face thoughtfully.

"She's just like you," he observed.

"She shouldn't have been out there. Her mind is always muddled on this day," Aramis patted her arm when Adelina jerked from the pain. Sylvie returned with a clean needle and thread. Constance followed a moment later, a bowl of steaming hot water in her hands.

"Step aside, Porthos," Sylvie commanded. "D'Artagnan, sop up that blood."

"You know how to sew wounds?" Athos inquired.

Sylvie nodded, mouth set into a determined line. "Ay. I've done it before, dozens of times," she glanced at Aramis. "Or do you want to do it?" She asked.

Aramis shook his head. He had dressed more of Adelina's wounds than he remembered, but never in the calm of the storm like this. He usually had to it in the seconds before their daring escape or risky run-in with assassins. He had never had time to think about it before.

He felt sick, thinking of it now. He grabbed Adelina's hand, squeezed. "You do it," he told Sylvie.

"Right then. D'Artagnan, near me. Porthos, hold her leg, make sure she doesn't move. Constance, can you pour a little… yes, there it is. Keep the area clean for me please. I've got this," Aramis breathed a sigh of relief, setting his head against the bed as the others rushed to obey Sylvie's command. Athos grabbed the back of his neck, massaging the tense muscles there.

"She'll be fine," he assuaged him.

Aramis nodded. "I know," he agreed, fighting back tears. He puffed a laugh. "She's more a Musketeer than I ever was." Athos smiled.

"I think she's exactly like you," he argued. "Which is how I know she would have come to this battle no matter what you told her, Aramis. This wasn't your fault," Aramis raised his head, gently slipped the beads from Adelina's slack grasp.

"When I met her," he began. "She was sixteen. A child. I was lonely and tired of being lonely. She was bored and tired of being underestimated. We made a good team, but I still didn't want her at my side. Not for a long time. Now, I can't imagine life without the brave, stupid girl. I can't even explain all the ways that she's saved me. I don't know where I'd be without her, Athos," his brother said nothing, the warmth on the back of Aramis's neck was enough.

"I always fool myself into thinking I protect her. But it's a lie. She protects me, and I just do as she says."

"I'd like to learn how she got you to do that."

Aramis chuckled. "Me too. Wrapped around her finger, she has me," his smile fell. "When she was seven years old, some men came to her parent's house in the night. They'd heard that her mother practiced witchcraft. It was a lie, of course. A rumor spread by the village gossipers who didn't like the union of a Spanish woman and African man," Aramis scoffed bitterly.

"They took her away, and Adelina's father hid her in a cupboard and went after them. In the morning, Adelina woke up. They hadn't returned, so she slipped free of the cupboard and journeyed out to find them. Those bastards had hung both her parents from a tree, left them to die and get eaten by the birds. Adelina found them that way in the morning, their bodies being picked apart by ravens. She blames herself. It's something we have in common, being survivors of a massacre," and watching the ravens pick apart their loved ones.

Damn, stupid birds.

"I wish I could take her pain away. Bear it myself. But I can't," Aramis sighed, setting his forehead against hers. "I can only bear it with her," he finished.

" _We_ can," Athos corrected. Aramis looked up, surprised at the statement. Athos shrugged. "She's important to you, so she's important to us. You two aren't alone anymore, Aramis. We're family. We'll take care of each other."

"Done!" Sylvie cried, laughing a bit hysterically as she backed away. Porthos released Adelina's leg, eyes searching the wound curiously. Aramis glanced over, saw the neat rows of stitching in his friend's leg. He sighed with relief.

"Sylvie, I owe you my life," he breathed.

"Oh, quiet! It was my pleasure. I'm sure I can find some pain reliever somewhere, if you'd like," she offered, grinning. Aramis was hard pressed not to smile back. He shook his head.

"You've done enough," he told her. He glanced at the others. "All of you. Thank you," none of them seemed to hear his gratitude.

"I know the Queen's physician has some pain killer," Constance contemplated. "That way, you can keep yours for the refugees. Then again, maybe I can get more for everyone!" Constance snapped her fingers, eyes alight.

"Can you really do that?" Sylvie gasped.

"I don't think the Queen will mind. We can bring blankets too, and new sheets. These rags are atrocious," Constance said, pinching Adelina's thin blanket between two fingers with disgust. "We'll need boxes," she said.

"The Garrison has dozens of empty crates. Take some recruits with you," Athos offered at once. "Bring the wine from my study, as well. It'll go to waste in there," Sylvie's head snapped up to meet Athos's gaze, surprised by his generosity.

"Oh, I'm grabbin that!" Porthos declared enthusiastically. "And chocolate. I can get some o that from that South American merchant off Resouille. Adelina likes chocolate, doesn't she?" Porthos asked Aramis, who could only nod, shocked to his core by the exchange happening before him.

It had been so long since he had seen such… Kindness.

"I've got flowers," D'Artagnan volunteered. "Helps keep the air pure. Its next to your merchant, Porthos…"

Porthos snickered. "Athos, that wine might not make it back."

"Gentlemen," Athos scolded. Constance rolled her eyes.

"I'll keep them in line, Captain," she assured Athos. "C'mon, you delinquents. You too, Sylvie. You'll have to show me what would be most useful to you. We'll return shortly. Aramis, do you want anything?"

He shook his head, made mute by gratitude. "We're bringing you back wine," Porthos informed him.

"And chocolate," D'Artagnan added. "To celebrate a victory," he glanced at Adelina. "May as well make her a Pauldron, too," he decided.

"Ooh, isn't that new seamstress…?"

"Right next to the merchant and florist? Let's go, Porthos," and then they were fair running from the room, resolved upon completing their mission. Aramis had no clue where they intended to get the money, but he dared not argue. Constance and Sylvie left a moment later, discussing the best dosage of opium for ailing children.

Then it was merely the three of them. Aramis turned to his brother. "You can go," he told him. "I know you have work elsewhere."

Athos settled against Adelina's bed at his side, shrugging. "Nonsense. Treveille can handle whatever happens. You won't leave her," he nodded to Adelina. "And I won't leave you." Aramis smiled tremulously, ducking his head to hide the tears sparkling in his eyes. Athos reached over, swiped an escapee away.

"You shouldn't weep at kindness, brother," he breathed sympathetically.

Aramis shrugged. "Athos?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm really glad Porthos pulled you from the Seine."

* * *

Aramis saw the ripple in her muscles along her shoulders and back before she groaned awake, several hours later. He was up at once, leaning over to gently swipe her hair away from her face. "Adelina?" he whispered, heart skipping a beat when her dark eyes fluttered open. "Easy, easy, _hermanita._ You lost a lot of blood. We'll talk about that later, by the way. How do you feel?" He wondered.

"Did I get stabbed?" Adelina asked, groggily. Probably the medication Constance had brought back. Aramis hummed an affirmative, chuckling softly at her tired eyes.

"Yes. In the leg. Its sewed up now."

"Why don't I feel anything?"

She would be embarrassed if he explained the full extent of what the others had done for her. Aramis decided to condense the story. "Constance grabbed some pain relievers for you."

"Ah," Adelina breathed, turning her head to examine the room wearily. When she had ascertained herself that they weren't in immediate danger, she let her head fall back unto the bed. Aramis brought out her beads from his pocket, pressing them into her fingers. "I had a dream," she whispered, clenching the gift feebly.

"Oh?"

"Yeah… My papa was there. In the meadow… Outside Madrid, remember?" Aramis nodded, recalling the stunning landscape dotted with red flowers and beautiful hills. "He was eating an orange. I went to him, and we sat down together," she smiled, with such innocence it made his heart clench. "He likes you," she told him.

"I'm honored," Aramis replied past the lump in his throat.

"Then mama came and braided my hair for me. She teased me until my sides ached, and we were happy," Adelina sighed blissfully, her eyes closing for a moment. When they opened again, Aramis smiled. "Do you think it was real? Did their spirits come to me?" She asked him.

Aramis squeezed her hand. "I'm sure of it," he assured her.

Adelina nodded as if this made perfect sense. "What time is it?"

"Nearly sunset. Do you feel well enough to stand? There are some people outside wondering how you're faring," Adelina scowled confusedly.

"Who?" She asked. Aramis laughed.

"You have to come see. Do you need my help?"

"No."

Aramis shook his head. So proud, this one. He hovered over her, heart lurching at every grunt or stumble she made as she struggled to push herself into a sitting position. When she had finally dangled her legs over the side of the bed, her skin was hot and sweaty to the touch. "I may need a little help," she panted as Aramis dabbed at her cheeks with a cold rag.

"I think so too," he replied dryly. He wrapped an arm around her waist. She set a hand on his shoulder, using him as a crutch. "Let me know if I'm going too fast," he told her as he hauled her to her feet. It took another moment for her to get her feet under her, gently maneuvering upward. Aramis carefully led her to the door and opened it.

The others were exactly where he'd expected them. Porthos had borrowed a few chairs from the Garrison and placed them in a circle in the middle of Sylvie's mostly empty common room. Her bed had been pushed to the side, making a semi-convincing couch. She and Athos sat there, separated from the group, seemingly lost in an animated conversation.

Meanwhile, Porthos and Elodie sat across from each other in the middle of the room playing cards. From the determined set of Porthos's mouth, Aramis could guess that Elodie was giving him quite a run for his money. If either of them had any.

Constance and D'Artagnan stood around them, watching the contest with avid concentration. "Ah, c'mon Porthos!" D'Artagnan cried. "You can do better than this!"

"You've met your match, boys!" Constance crowed from behind Elodie, victoriously. Ah. So this was a betting game in more than one way, it seemed.

"You be quiet, traitor!" Porthos growled at Constance.

"Getting upset there, Monsieur? Ready to admit defeat?" Elodie taunted.

Adelina inhaled sharply, backpedaling quickly. "What are they _doing here_?" She hissed, when Aramis caught her before she collapsed.

"Wait, wait! They're here to _help us,_ Adelina. They wanted to see how you were doing," Aramis told her hurriedly. He heard the awe in his own voice as he then whispered: "We're not alone anymore."

Their whispered conversation had caught the eye of Sylvie and Athos, who both looked up. "Adelina!" Sylvie cried.

"Three hearts! YES!" Elodie roared a second later, surging to her feet with both fists raised. Her chair toppled to the floor, thrown by the force of her delight.

"Ha! Ha!" Constance whooped.

"Oh, come on! Porthos, what was that?" D'Artagnan cried, as Porthos just shook his head, burying his face in his palms.

"D'Artagnan, Porthos!" Athos snapped, pulling them both out of their entertainment. They looked up and smiled when they saw Adelina standing there.

"Adelina!" Porthos yelled. "You're awake! How you feelin, then?" He asked. Adelina shrugged, fairly buried into Aramis's side.

D'Artagnan noticed her hesitance and hurried to grab the flowers waiting by the floor. "We brought you flowers," he told her, almost sheepishly, as he approached. He offered the bouquet, bowing low. Adelina gawked at the gift.

"And chocolate. The kind with sugar in it. It's the bitterest stuff without it," Porthos added jovially. He waved her over. "Come sit with me, darlin', you must be suffocatin, what with 'Mis sitting over your bed all day," he told her.

His casualness was infectious. Aramis felt Adelina tugging against his grip toward Porthos. He walked her over as Constance brought another chair for her at Porthos's side. He placed a bar of chocolate in her lap, flicking out the cards. "You ever play black jack?" he asked wickedly.

"Porthos," Aramis warned.

"I won't teach her the dirty tricks, Aramis. Calm down. Go sit with your master cheater over there," he pointed at Elodie, pouting. She crossed her arms, harrumphing indignantly.

"You're hardly one to talk! You had a card up your sleeve!"

Porthos eyes grew wide with pretend affront. "Oh, that's slander! Tell her, Adelina!"

"Don't involve me in this," Adelina drawled, with such Athos-like indifference that Aramis found himself laughing. Athos journeyed over, plucked the card from Porthos's grip, and handed Aramis a cup of wine. He took it, watching Adelina carefully over the rim as she accepted D'Artagnan's flowers. She still looked stunned.

"Thank you," she whispered. D'Artagnan nodded, patted her shoulder and rejoined Porthos, who was watching Athos examine cards grumpily.

"Why'd you take my card, Thos?" Porthos demanded.

"Because you both cheated," he replied. Sylvie peered over his shoulder and burst into titters at the similar cards.

"Slander!"

"Traitor!"

Adelina giggled. "What are you laughin at, pipsqueak?" Porthos demanded, noticing.

"Porthos, don't harass our sister," Athos scolded him, without looking away from the cards.

"I'll do what I want!" Porthos growled, suddenly leaping from his seat to envelop Adelina in a great hug. She squealed, laughing as he dragged her into his embrace possessively.

"Her _injury_ , Porthos!" Aramis gasped. Porthos just grunted concession as Adelina gently laid her head in his lap, setting her feet into the chair offered her as if Porthos were her personal stuffed rabbit. He didn't seem to mind. He merely went about his card counting, showing her each one and telling her the names. "Careful, my friend. She'll have you wrapped round her finger in no time," Aramis cautioned him, smiling.

"Ah, you're just jealous, 'Mis!"

"That she seems to like you more than me, or that you seem to like her more than me?" he inquired.

"We like D'Artagnan better too. Shoulda brought us chocolate, you know."

"My mistake."

Adelina rolled her eyes, reaching out. He grabbed her hand gently, reaching down to kiss her on the forehead. "Rest here," he whispered before Porthos swatted at him. Aramis backed away as the game began again. He didn't know if it was the pain reliever or a natural sense of safety, but Adelina's grief seemed to have made way for peace.

She watched Porthos shuffle his cards curiously, eyes already flicking with strategy. Aramis had a bad feeling she would be scamming people out of their money in no time, and he wouldn't be able to say a thing about it because she had him wrapped around her finger.

He leaned against the empty doorway, smiling. Constance resumed her post behind Elodie, the two women consulting on cards in conspiratorial whispers. D'Artagnan stood over Porthos's shoulder, arms crossed as he glared playfully at the two women, muttering something about scheming gossipers.

Constance flung a small cup at his face. He ducked the projectile, Porthos burst into laughter and Athos, from his spot at Sylvie's side, was forced to intervene on D'Artagnan's behalf. Sylvie noticed him staring and walked over to him. "I can see why you love them so much," she said softly, leaning against the doorframe beside him.

Aramis nodded. His mind flashed back to his son and Anne, far away from this scene of solidarity and peace. His heart momentarily froze with sorrow for them, but he could not let Sylvie see it.

"They're my family," he replied simply. He glanced down at her, following her gaze to Athos's stern countenance. "I see you've taken a liking to our dear Athos," he observed, pretending to examine his nails. Sylvie elbowed him in the ribs. "Ow!"

"Hush, you!" She growled, brows furrowed. Aramis snickered, and she sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes, but don't worry. You aren't the only one. I haven't watched Porthos flirt in a while but…" He nodded to the game of cards. Porthos was loudly and dramatically protesting his losses, making Elodie laugh. Aramis could see Porthos stealing looks at her grinning face with something resembling shyness. He turned back to Sylvie. "Your attentions will be lost on Athos, you know. He's not one to trust easily, or to see the good in himself," he studied her for a long moment. "But you see it, don't you?"

Sylvie nodded. "I see it in all of you. But yes, especially him. Doesn't matter, I suppose," she gave a half shrug. "I'm particular about who I kiss," she told him.

"So is Athos."

Sylvie made a sound of disgust shoving his shoulder fondly. "How do Adelina and Elodie put up with you? I'm going to watch the game now," she harrumphed, abandoning his side to rejoin Athos on the outskirts of the game. She leaned over Elodie's shoulder, plucking a card from her deck.

"Hey!"

"No _cheatin,_ you scoundrel," Sylvie informed her.

"Ha!" Porthos mocked, a second before Athos did the same to his own deck, grabbing D'Artagnan by the collar as he went to see Elodie's cards for himself.

"That applies to you too, gentlemen," he drawled. "Aramis said not to teach Adelina how to cheat," he pointed out.

"Aramis taught her how to shoot!" D'Artagnan whined.

"Papa taught me," Adelina argued, sounding as if she was on the cusp of sleep. "Rene taught me how to sneak around." Porthos patted her shoulder consolingly.

"Do _you_ think I was cheating, Mi'lady Sombra?" He asked innocently. Aramis rolled his eyes as Porthos sent him an impish look. Those two would be the graying of Athos and the death of him, he was sure of it.

"If anyone's innocent of cheatin, it's me," Elodie declared, slapping down her cards. At once pulled back into the game, Porthos did the same, drawing admiring _ooh's_ from the audience. Aramis chuckled. This was no mansion. No forest, no dogs or dresses, no Anne or his son, orphans or safety, per se. But this was… _Something_. Something more.

He stepped forward to join it.


	18. Chapter 18

**_Three weeks Later:_**

He had gone into his office to escape Porthos and D'Artagnan asking him about Sylvie.

He should have known they'd send Aramis after him. _At least he's knocking this time,_ Athos thought, as he looked up from the stack of paperwork on his desk. The door creaked open, revealing the third-party assault.

Aramis smiled, raising his hands pacifically when Athos pointed his sword at him. "I come in peace, Athos! I assure you, I'm not here to pry into your personal life any more than usual," he said at once. Athos narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "I _promise."_

He lowered the sword, glaring at Aramis silently as he returned to his paperwork. Aramis, evidently judging it safe to enter, then closed the door behind him and sat before Athos. "Actually, I bring a message from Treveille," he added.

"Does he want his post as Captain back?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Then I don't care," Athos growled, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been reading and signing papers for two and a half hours now. His eyes throbbed in his skull, and he had so many papercuts lining his fingers both hands just _ached_ now. He wanted to get out of this room (if he didn't know Porthos was lying in wait somewhere nearby, he would) and practice his sword work, walk through Paris, sit down with Sylvie, _anything._

Aramis watched him sympathetically. "Ah, _mon ami,_ I know that look," he tsked. "How long have you been in here?"

"Doesn't matter," Athos grunted. "Too long and not long enough," he gestured to the small stack still in need of his attention.

"Can I help?"

"If you'd like to shoot me, now's the time," Aramis chuckled, which made Athos smile a little at his own dramatism. "What's your message, Aramis?" he asked. Aramis moved the stack aside and leaned an elbow on the table.

"The Spanish King has sent an emissary to talk peace terms," he confided. Athos's fatigue was instantly forgotten. He sat up, a tingle of hope sparking along his spine.

"Who?"

"Treveille wouldn't give me a name. I have my spies trying to find out now," Athos rolled his eyes. Aramis's flagrant disregard for Treveille's secrets was sometimes amusing, most times frustrating. This time, he could hardly blame the other man. Between handling the Red Guard's threats on innocent people, and protecting the King, Athos was unable to confront the Minister himself. Aramis's spy network was a handy tool for discovering things Treveille would not say aloud, despite his insistence that Athos tell _him_ everything.

"This could be a good sign," he mused. "Or a very, very bad one. Did you hear that there was another rescue attempt for Miguel last night?" Even as he asked the question, he knew it was foolish. Aramis gave him a dry look.

"Who do you think foiled it?" He replied.

Athos sighed, tapping his quill end on the table anxiously. "I sent D'Artagnan to keep the peace at the Chatalet. Some of the other prisoners have begun to riot, thinking that if the Spanish assassin gets freed, they might enjoy the same fate," he said.

"Suspicious, isn't it?" Aramis wondered, leaning back in his seat. He grabbed a stalk of grass. Athos refused to look as he began chewing on the end. He swore Aramis did it purposefully to annoy him now. "The same night a Spanish emissary arrives is the same night Italian mercenaries attempt to free Miguel," he observed.

Athos nodded. "You don't think it's a coincidence?"

"I think Miguel knew we'd captured one of his men for five days before we attacked. He knows my methods. He knows I would have gotten the information eventually, so why did he stay in Notre Dame?" He questioned. Athos frowned, watching Aramis's expressionless face closely.

"He expected to trap _us._ He underestimated the strength of our forces," he guessed. That had been the original idea, anyway. But now Aramis shook his head.

"Miguel has never been known to underestimate me. And another thing that's been bothering me: he surrendered so… Politely. No fight, no insults, no taunts. I know I left early from the proceedings, but he hasn't even tried to trick his guards into giving him extra rations. It's very unlike him," Athos once again ignored the niggling question at the back of his mind that demanded to know how Aramis knew this Miguel so well.

There were more important things here.

He dropped his quill. "You think this was all an elaborate plan," he said. Aramis gave him a firm look.

"I'm getting that impression, yes. But I won't know more until I have the name of this Spanish emissary," Athos nodded.

"Let me know when you do. Maybe I can send Porthos and D'Artagnan to guard him, examine him for motives."

"Better than having my spies do it. I will," they lapsed into silence that Athos had a feeling wasn't completely companionable. He cocked a brow at his friend.

"Was there something else?" He wondered. Aramis glanced at him.

"Porthos told me you'd stopped drinking," he blurted.

Athos shrugged. "You hadn't noticed that by now?"

"Seeing is believing. I'm proud of you," Athos felt a warm glow in his heart at those words. Throughout the withdrawal he had imagined Aramis saying those words to him, standing over him with a cool rag as he whispered his pride and forgiveness. But then, he had believed Aramis dead.

Seeing and hearing him now almost brought tears to his eyes. Athos cleared his throat. "Yes, well… Adelina told me you've stopped sleeping with every woman you see," his tone turned sarcastic without conscious thought. "Must have been hard." Aramis hummed in agreement, settling his chin in his hands thoughtfully. He smiled at Athos, sadly.

"None of them could replace the woman I was truly seeking," he pointed out, softly. Athos immediately regretted his words. Hadn't they both faced enough pain on this topic already? He struggled for a way to make up for the ill-conceived taunt.

"I don't think I've ever said this," he ventured. _And I might regret saying it later,_ he thought. "But… Any woman would be lucky to be loved by you. I'm sorry the one you've fallen for is…" he waved his hand vaguely, searching for words. "Out of reach."

Intimate discussions had never been his forte. Porthos would have been better to talk too about this. "It's my own fault," Aramis stared out of the window, past the buildings and homes toward the Louvre in the distance. "She still thinks I'm dead, you know. She and my son. I had Adelina check on him once," Athos decided not to lecture him on the danger of that decision right now. Spying on The Dauphin was a _capital offense._ "She said he's gotten so big, Athos! And his hair is blonde, like Anne's," Athos nodded.

"He's grown into a handsome child."

"Hmm…. I wonder if she ever mourned me," Aramis did not have to specify _who_ he meant. Athos returned his gaze levelly, trying not to recall the numerous silences they had had for Aramis over the years.

" _We_ did," he replied. Aramis shook his head, his question going unanswered. He probably knew Athos wouldn't tell him anyway. He couldn't encourage this. Not if he wanted to keep his resurrected brother alive.

Aramis straightened in his seat, stretching his long arms over his head like a cat. "Speaking of women, however," he stuck Athos with a knowing look. Athos groaned and sank back into his seat, covering his eyes tiredly.

"Is there no decency?"

He heard Aramis's chuckle before lowering his hands. "I won't say much. I know Porthos and D'Artagnan are harassing you enough, but… You deserve a good woman, Athos. A strong woman who will not swindle or hurt or betray you. I believe Sylvie is that kind of woman. That's all I have to say," he swiped his hands, as if scrubbing them clean of the conversation. Athos gave him a not-altogether ungrateful glare.

"Thank you for being brief."

"Anything for you." They shared a quick grin. Aramis snatched the band from his long hair, running a hand through it as he stood. Athos grabbed the grass stalk from his mouth while he was distracted preening. Aramis gave him a sulky pout.

Athos returned the look with an exasperated one of his own. _He had his hair like that when we found him,_ he remembered fondly. The thought prompted a different memory, one filled with joy but also some… Disquiet. He squirmed in his seat as Aramis turned to go.

"Wait," his friend stopped mid-step, turning back to him. "Aramis… There's something that has bothered me…" he began hesitantly. Aramis's response was anything hut hesitant.

"Should I go kill them?" He inquired. Athos glared at him. Aramis did not flinch away, and his expression remained serious. He _would_ go kill someone should Athos ask, and probably painfully too. The thought made Athos shiver involuntarily. Over the past few weeks, their persistence that Aramis still lay behind the mask of Rene had not waned, but in moments like this, Athos doubted. Aramis was still as loyal as ever, but his fidelity was… Disturbing, at times. Flattering others.

"No. It's about when we found you in Douai. You were happy to see Porthos and D'Artagnan, but you wept when you saw me," he pointed out, squirming in his chair a bit. Aramis's eyes widened, and he sprang forward to lay a hand atop Athos's.

"Athos, no! I _was_ happy to see you!" He cried.

"You looked terrified."

A brief look of confusion, followed quickly by guilt. Aramis lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck, sinking back into the chair tiredly. "Well… I was," he admitted. "Every night I was away, all I could think about was how much I had disappointed you. The whole affair with Marsac and Anne and Rochefort and… _Everything_ … I suppose I felt as if ending the war might make up for it all. I could give you a reason to be proud of me. When I saw you again, you looked so angry…I feared I'd failed you again."

Athos felt as if someone had just snatched his heart from his chest and thrown it to the ground. The air rushed from his lungs, stunned by the honest confession. "Aramis, how could you think that?" he choked, reaching out. He took Aramis's hand, squeezing it between both of his.

"There has not been a single day, a _second_ in time, when you have disappointed me," Aramis snorted, opening his mouth to no doubt provide a few examples. Athos shook his head. "No, look at me," he took his friend's chin between two fingers, steering their eyes up to meet.

"I mean it. I want to hit you daily, and you give me enough heart attacks to turn me gray haired, but never think I have _ever_ been ashamed of you. I have only, ever, been proud to know you, no matter what you've done," Aramis's expression had morphed into acute shock. Had Athos never told him this before? Had he truly gone all these years thinking Athos was _disappointed_ in him?

Athos inhaled a shuddering breath, the emotion dark and dense in his chest. He closed his eyes briefly. "If anything, you should be ashamed of me. I let you down," he mumbled.

Aramis, if possible, looked even more shocked at that. " _What_?! Athos, no…"

Athos held up a stilling hand, shaking his head. It was time for him to confess his own sins. "Wait. Just listen… We had so many opportunities to come for you. When we started receiving your letters, we'd argue for hours on whether we should just follow Mi'lady's stream of contacts. Porthos and D'Artagnan were ready," Athos gulped.

"I always stopped them. I feared that we might put you in more danger with our presence, and once we knew the Queen was being threatened, I… I put duty over you. I _abandoned_ you. I'm so sorry, Aramis," he bowed his head beneath the weight of his shame, heart stuttering in his chest.

Aramis, as was his character, denied the admission. He squeezed Athos's hands, ducking his eyes to meet his downcast gaze. "You gave me _hope_ , Athos! Don't believe Porthos hasn't told me what you did just to contact me the first time. Working with Mi'lady De Winter? I know how hard it must have been to ask for her help. You did that for _me_ ," Athos shook his head sadly.

"Perhaps. But I didn't do everything to find you. If we had left the dozens of times Porthos said, we could have caught up to you before Rochefort did. We could have avoided all this, but I let my blind devotion to the law come before you," his palm tingled as he slammed it against his desk, teeth gritted angrily. "Before my own brother!"

Aramis grabbed his arm before he could do it again, eyes filled with compassion. "You did the right thing, Athos! You protected Anne and my son, what else could I have asked from you?"

Tears built in his eyes, hot and agonizing. For five years, he had lived thinking that he had betrayed one of his brothers. He had failed him. The truth of that cascaded down his cheek in a single tear. It burned across his face, a whiplash of judgement. "Loyalty, perhaps?" He growled bitterly.

"Athos, listen to me. You did not _betray_ me. You _honored_ me in the most selfless, dutiful way a brother could! I betrayed you when I slept with Anne. I knew the consequences of my actions and played with fire anyway. I put everyone I love at risk for _execution_ out of selfishness. What happened to me was _deserved…" what?_

Athos stared at him, stunned to his core by how alike they were… and for the first time, he understood Porthos and D'Artagnan's constant phrase whenever his name came up.

 _"You're a bloody idiot."  
_ He and Aramis alike. Self-sacrificing, dull buffoons. "No! It was not," he declared, confidently. "Aramis, you always complain I don't see the good in myself but God, can't you see it in yourself? You have _saved_ more lives than you've ever endangered. Including mine. No matter what you've done, you do not deserve to suffer for a bad choice any more than we all do!"

"I _used_ to save lives," Aramis muttered. "Nowadays, I am better at taking them."

Athos shrugged. "Sometimes one requires the other…" He pointed out, with a sad, lopsided grin. _This is the rule of soldiers_ , he thought. _To see life as others cannot. Even if we cannot accept it ourselves._

If Aramis's expression was any indication, he had yet to accept either reality or forgiveness for his deeds. Athos wondered how long it had been since he had stepped into a church, seeking absolution or comfort.

With a pang of remorse, he realized Aramis probably never would again.

Gently, Aramis pulled away. "I… I don't deserve your mercy," he muttered. "Athos… You don't know the things I've done."

"No. But I know _you_ , Aramis. I know you better than I know myself, and I know that you went on that mission to Madrid as much out of self-loathing as to protect us. You did it to torture yourself, and I know how that feels," he knew he had hit a sensitive spot when Aramis looked away, biting his bottom lip. "No more. I won't allow you to _hate_ yourself like this. You never let me do it."

The chuckle Aramis let out sounded broken to him. He squeezed the back of his neck, bringing Aramis' forehead down to touch his own affectionately. "You sound like Adelina."

"That's because she's wise beyond her years. Aramis, listen to me: I lost Thomas to a stupid, reckless mistake. My _little brother_. When I accepted The Musketeers commission, I swore I'd never lose you and Porthos that way. That I'd protect you."

And he had failed. He had under estimated Rochefort and the strength of his malice. He had forced his brother into a lonely, shadowed war desperately trying to earn a pride Athos already had in him. _I won't… I **can't** lose him again_, he knew.

He took a steeling breath, staring at Aramis with dogged determination. "I failed in that once, and for five years lived with the hell of that knowledge. Never again. Do you hear me? I will _never_ let you down again."

A tender hand pressed against his cheek. "I don't think you ever did," Aramis whispered, with complete confidence. Athos smiled. This was one point they would always disagree on, among many.

"Well, I do."

Aramis closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, Athos saw his own soul reflected there. "Fine," Aramis decided. "Since we're promising each other things. How about this? I swear I will never leave you three again. Not out of penance or fear. I won't leave. Not willfully," Athos's heart sang.

 _"Maybe I can get my Inseperables back."_

Yes, maybe their Captain could. Athos grinned. "I don't see a problem with that promise," he quipped. Aramis smiled.

"Good," he replied. Then, he studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something in Athos's face. When his examination was over, he relaxed partially. "You're truly… Not ashamed of me?"

"I am infinitely honored by you," Athos replied immediately. "There's nothing that could ever change that. You three are my salvation, my strength," his thumb stroked Aramis's temple affectionately. _"My soul._ Always. All for one."

Aramis nodded. "And one for all."

It was at that moment that the door to Athos's study burst open. He jumped in his seat, startled by the sudden noise. Aramis surged upward, one pistol aimed at the intruder, but he barked a short laugh upon seeing who it was.

"Porthos! You sly dog! _I_ didn't even hear you!" He cried, hurrying forward to grab Porthos's arm before he toppled over. Their friend's chest was heaving, as if he had just run a marathon. He leaned his sweat soaked head against the doorframe, gasping for breath. A thrill of apprehension raced down Athos's spine. He stood.

"Porthos? What is it?" He demanded.

"Athos! Athos, quick… We've got trouble. Bunch of assassins as the Chatalet tryin to free Miguel. We're gonna need reinforcements," Porthos gasped out. Athos was moving immediately, hurrying to take Porthos's other arm as Aramis steered him into the room to sit down.

"Where's D'Artagnan?!" Athos snapped.

"In the thick of it where he always is," Porthos growled, waving them off agitatedly. "Adelina is there, too, guardin his back," of course she was. Porthos wouldn't have left the battlefield otherwise. Athos looked up, met Aramis's steely gaze.

That gaze promised war.

He waved a hand in his direction, deferring to his superior experience. "Captain?"

Aramis accepted responsibility with a grave nod. "By this time, every spy in France knows. They'll make sure Miguel stays in a prison cell. The only problems we'll have are holding the other prisoners and preventing civilian deaths. I imagine the Italians are mounting the attack. They won't be merciful," he looked to Porthos, who nodded at the quick assessment. As one, they started towards the door, Athos grabbing his sword on the way out.

"What's your plan?" He asked, fastening his weapon's belt around his hips. Aramis threw his hat to the side, taking out a pistol to examine the muzzle quickly. Before he could answer, Athos heard shouts from the courtyard.

"Oh, boy," Porthos muttered as they streamed from his office, noticing a small crowd gathering below. Athos's eyes scanned the crowd, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw D'Artagnan. He was limping again, face screwed in pain. Despite that, he had an arm around Eustace, helping the other Musketeer stand, a bullet having cleaved through his knee cap.

"Athos!" He yelled when he saw them. Athos was already flying down the stairs, two at a time, Aramis and Porthos on his heels. "We were ambushed. By the time anyone knew what was happening, Miguel was already free," D'Artagnan handed Eustace to Brujon, turning to them quickly.

Aramis instantly knelt next to his limp leg, examining it with quick fingers. Porthos wrapped an arm around his shoulders. D'Artagnan kicked at Aramis and yanked his arm away. "It doesn't matter right now!" He barked "Didn't you just hear me? Miguel has _escaped_. I have Musketeers out looking for him," he reported.

Athos laid a hand on his shoulder. "How many wounded?" _And where are you wounded?_ He wanted to add. Aramis was still examining his knee, poking at it persistently. Athos trusted he would find the reason for D'Artagnan's ailment in a moment.

"At least twenty. We were caught off guard," an apologetic glance. "They planted a bomb. We've got ten dead," Athos's blood froze. Porthos snarled beside him, and Aramis's fingers momentarily stilled.

"Adelina?" He asked, with a slight tremble in his voice.

D'Artagnan patted his shoulder. "She's unharmed. She's leading the search party," he assured him.

Aramis sagged with relief. "Thank God," he breathed, then straightened. "That's good. She'll already have headway. Here's the plan: D'Artagnan, get a horse, stay off this knee. Its swollen again. Evacuate the wounded from the battlefield. Where was the bomb?"

"Southeast corridor."

"There will be more in the surrounding area. They'll want to overwhelm our forces. Athos, go in there and sweep the area for the others. They'll be in the last few minutes before explosion by now, search residential areas as well. Take Brujon with you, and some horses."

"Horses?"

"They have superior senses to humans. They'll hear or see the fuse before you do. You can use dogs as well, if it makes it easier. I'll send Elodie to join you. Porthos, take a batch of Musketeers and join Adelina in the search. If you find Miguel, take him alive. Dead he's no use to us. Shoot him a few times, if you'd like," Porthos grinned roguishly.

"Sounds good. Where're you goin?"

Aramis's fingers danced over the weapons on his belt. "To contain the prisoners inside the Chatalet and get rid of those assassins. Work like that requires a sniper. Hurry, be careful," he pointed at D'Artagnan.

"Stay off that knee," he ordered. "And brothers," he added, gravely. "Remember: these men are not like you. They have no sense of honor or mercy. You get a chance to put one of them down? _You shoot."_

"We'll keep that in mind," Athos offered, as D'Artagnan waved at Brujon, signaling for him to bring forth the horses. Porthos started shouting, commanding a small group of Musketeers to follow him, and hurry up about it. "So long as you remember that you're not like those men either. Pauldron or not, you're a Musketeer. Don't lose sight of that, Aramis," his friend smiled, tipping his hat to Athos in acknowledgement.

Athos half expected the oft-repeated quip about his name being Rene now, but it never came. Instead, Aramis turned on his heel and Athos turned to the group of men that had assembled before him, already awaiting orders.

"Let's go."


	19. Chapter 19

D'Artagnan couldn't fathom why it was that he was the one who was always getting injured. During the war, Porthos had said it was because out of the three of them, his recklessness even surpassed Aramis, and thus it was fitting that he should pay for it more heavily. Still, the pain did seem to be unfairly proportioned to him.

It was like a sickness, at this point. At every jostle of his horse, the swollen mass of flesh surrounding his knee sent stabs of pain through his leg. D'Artagnan could already hear the lecture that Constance would give him about taking proper care of his injuries. She and Aramis could do that later.

"Easy there, Jeanier," he urged, watching as he and Michael leaned against each other, using opposite legs to watch. D'Artagnan's chest constricted at each laboring step they took. He knew that with his knee, he could hardly be of any help to them, but it still irked him that he had to be on this damned horse while they struggled below.

He flinched as further away, a shrill scream broke through the groans of his men. He assumed it was from the battle being waged on the opposite end of the Chatalet. Aramis and Thibault had lured the Italian Mercenaries there so D'Artagnan could get the wounded to safety.

He could hear their spattering gunshots from here. Beyond that, the familiar bustle of Paris was intercepted with shrieks and shouts from Porthos's search party. He and Adelina were probably turning the city upside down searching for Miguel, or else chasing him through the busy merchant stands.

And D'Artagnan couldn't help with either venture.

All the while, Athos's arm was still sore from the last battle, and Adelina had been stabbed not three weeks earlier. Yet D'Artagnan couldn't leave the saddle.

 _They're a load of over protective, hypocritical assholes,_ D'Artagnan decided, not for the first time, as he recalled Aramis's directive. He harrumphed, turning to the left and noticing that the last cart hauling the injured being pulled back toward the Garrison. They had another twelve people to go, and that wasn't even counting the dead that had to be sent to the morgue.

"Where's that extra cart?!" He yelled.

"Right here," D'Artagnan swiveled in his saddle, surprised to see Treveille headed riding forward. Behind him, a grumpy looking Marchaeux and Palace guards marched along, pulling five large carts behind them. D'Artagnan grinned. _Good ole Treveille_ , he should have known that his old Captain wouldn't let them down.

His gratitude was swiftly replaced with numbing shock when he realized that the _First Minister of France was standing in the open_. He almost fell from his horse in astonishment.

"Minister!" D'Artagnan gasped, looking around anxiously. "You shouldn't be here! Miguel is still missing, and there are _active_ bombs in the area. You should be with their Majesties!" He cried.

" _Her_ Majesty sent me personally," Treveille replied crisply, jumping from his horse and offering the reins to Michael. "Here, take my horse. It will be faster," he offered. Michael stared at the older man as if he were insane, but upon a nod from D'Artagnan, only sighed and allowed Treveille to help him into the saddle.

Jeanier followed a moment later, cringing as he sat behind Michael. "Constance and some Court physicians are at the Garrison, ready to help when needed. Where are the others?" Treveille asked when they had been safely seated.

He slapped the horse's flank, sending them off. D'Artagnan sighed, positioning his horse so that he stood between Treveille and the open streets. He unhitched a pistol from his saddle bag, peering around cautiously. If a sniper got it into his head to kill the King's Minister, it would be war all over again.

"Were you so foolish as to not even bring a guard for yourself?" D'Artagnan demanded. Treveille's brows arched at his tone, but he did not dispute the assumption. D'Artagnan wondered what he had done to deserve the company of _four_ self-sacrificing idiots. Not to mention his wife. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Brilliant," he groaned. "Well, Aramis is taking back the Chatalet from the mercenaries," he gestured to the shootout absently. "Athos is looking for bombs, and Porthos is searching for Miguel," he reported quickly. He watched as the remaining injured were loaded unto the cart, the groans of his comrades sending waves of rage through him.

When they got Miguel back, he was going to put multiple bullets in him.

"Any headway?"

"I've no clue. I've been confined to this damned horse all day," he growled. Treveille smiled, tiredly.

"They're only so over protective because they know they couldn't function without you, D'Artagnan," he assured him. D'Artagnan snorted. He knew that, of course. Didn't mean that he liked being relegated to the sidelines for his own good. He felt so _helpless,_ and admittedly, it was probably making him childish.

"I know," he sighed. Then, "we should get you back to the Louvre, Minister. Having you out in the open is making me nervous," he informed him. Treveille harrumphed, glaring at him from the corner of his eye.

"I used to be a soldier, you know."

"France doesn't need you to be a soldier. It needs you to be the Minister of War. I'm escorting you back," D'Artagnan decided, extending a hand to the older man. "Besides, I'm of little use just sitting here," he added. Treveille opened his mouth to reply, probably to scold D'Artagnan on his negative attitude.

That's when the ground shook, a massive _boom_ reverberating through the air until it tingled in D'Artagnan's bones. "Wow!" D'Artagnan gasped as his horse whinnied, stumbling to the side away from the noise. Treveille gasped, flailing for the nearest person to steady himself.

D'Artagnan grasped his horse by the mane, whispering soothing words into her ear to calm the terrified animal. He looked up, noticed a thick bloom of smoke rising into the air from the North. "That couldn't have been good," he muttered heart pounding. He glanced toward the other end of the prison.

The sounds of gunshots had halted after the explosion, but now they continued. Evidently the Mercenaries didn't care about a potential bomb going off in the city.

He looked down and met Treveille's eyes, and he inhaled sharply at the horror he saw there. "What?!" He demanded. "Are you hurt?" Treveille shook his head.

"Athos," the other man croaked. "Didn't you say Athos was looking for bombs?"

 _No._ D'Artagnan's heart stopped in his chest as he swiveled in his saddle, staring at the darkness suddenly billowing into the air. It clouded the sunlight like ink, spreading dark tentacles over the smooth surface of the sky. Past the blood rushing in his ears, he could hear shrill screams echoing from the spot. "Athos," he whispered.

He jabbed his heels into the horse's sides without thinking, ignoring the sudden stabs in his knee as she began galloping toward the explosion site. "D'Artagnan, wait!" Treveille yelled, lunging toward him. It was too late, however. D'Artagnan was already thundering past into the streets, his mind pounding with a single name.

 _Athos. Athos. Athos._

Was he hurt, dead? If he had been anywhere near that blast…D'Artagnan's mind spun, conjuring images of Athos lying on the ground, broken, bloody, alone. He pressed his heels into his horse's sides insistently, barely noticing the pedestrians that scrambled to get out of his way.

After what felt like a century, D'Artagnan made it. The explosives had evidently been placed near a market stand. The small crater where that stand had been gawped at him from the ground, a hollowed mouth with bits of limbs and blood in its teeth. The street was in turmoil, people running and shouting through the gloom of smoke. To his left, men had already grabbed buckets of water from the well, splashing it onto the small fires that had erupted from the blast site.

Through the gloom of smoke, he could hear groans and screams of pain. The thin outline of bodies littered the ground. It reminded him of a warzone. D'Artagnan coughed, covering his mouth and nose from the acrid smoke.

"Athos!" He croaked, urging his horse forward. The animal whinnied angrily, prancing backward away from the panic. D'Artagnan let out a frustrated growl. He had no time for this. Swinging his uninjured leg across his horse, he handed the reins to a woman carrying an injured child next to him.

"The horse will be easier," he assured her, when she shied away hurriedly, staring at him with wide, disorientated eyes. More than likely concussed. He could see blood dribbling down her forehead. "Take the wounded to the Musketeers Garrison. They'll be taken care of there," without waiting for a response, he turned and began limping through the crowd.

"Athos!" He yelled again. "Athos, can you hear me? Athos!" His throat and eyes burned from the smoke. He swiped an arm across his face, trying to clear his vision. "Athos!"

"D'Artagnan!" A voice cried from his left. He swiveled, saw Sylvie's wide eyes staring at him from the gloom. She ran up to him, pressing close to him to avoid the milling people. She was covering her mouth with a handkerchief. "What happened here?" She demanded, gesturing to the chaos.

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Long story. Have you seen Athos?"

"No. Why? Is he here? Is he hurt?" D'Artagnan sincerely hoped not, but he doubted his uncertainty would assuage Sylvie now.

"He was leading the team trying to find the bomb here. He might be injured. I have to find him," he grabbed her elbow as she pivoted on a heel, about to go searching herself. "Wait, Sylvie! Can you coordinate things here? Get the injured to the Garrison and everyone off the streets," he told her. Sylvie nodded.

"Y-yes, of course, but what about…?" He squeezed her shoulder.

"If Athos is here, I'll find him," he promised. He waved her away. "Go. I'll send for you when we find him," judging by her torn expression, she had qualms with his plan. However, Athos wouldn't love her if she had no notion of duty, and he did love her. D'Artagnan knew it.

Which was why he had to live. Athos deserved a chance to be happy with a good woman.

Sylvie squeezed his shoulder. "Be careful. Find him," she commanded, before she turned and began helping the men throw water unto the fires, hollering orders in between coughs.

"Oughta call her Captain," D'Artagnan chuckled. He turned as well, opening his mouth to call out. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. D'Artagnan's hand darted to his sword instinctively, but before he could draw it, he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head.

Then it all went dark.

* * *

"What do you mean, they're _both missing?!"_ Porthos demanded, his voice high and incredulous. He stood behind Athos's desk, heart thundering in his throat. It had been several hours since the entire Garrison had been deployed to help track down Miguel, and while the assassin had escaped, they had new problems.

One was the amount of injured bodies streaming into the Garrison from the numerous battles that had been waged around the city. The Queen had already sent aid in the form of Palace physicians and all the medicine The Louvre could spare, but hours later and still more were coming. The recruits were running themselves ragged trying to help with it all. Paris was in shambles; the King was irate and Porthos's mind was spinning because that wasn't even the half of it.

Treveille, pacing an anxious rhythm against the floor, glanced at him irritably. "What I said, Porthos. D'Artagnan ran off to help Athos when we heard the explosion, and no one has seen either him or Athos since," he repeated.

Porthos's heart jumped, even though this was the second time of him hearing it. "Well, who's the last person to see 'em?" He demanded, from the general assembly. He looked to Elodie, who was sitting on Athos's desk. Adelina had already sewn closed a long gash in her forehead. Now she wrapped it in one of the bandages Constance had brought. She looked up at his questions, guilt in her eyes.

"I saw Athos before the explosion," she explained. "We had heard the fuse and cleared the area before going in to stamp it out. I was near the blast. I got knocked out until about ten minutes ago. I don't know where he could have gone, but something about this isn't right," Adelina hummed in agreement, stepping back to observe her handiwork.

"When Sylvie dropped off Elodie, she said that she had seen D'Artagnan at the site. He went lookin for Athos, but that was hours ago now," she said.

Treveille scowled. "And none of your spies…?" he trailed off. Adelina sighed and patted Elodie on the back, turning back to them tiredly.

"All of our spies and assassins are with Rene, either restoring order at the Chatalet or still searching for Miguel. If that blast hadn't gone off, we could have taken him," she growled, glancing at Porthos. He nodded absently. They had tracked Miguel through the streets of France and had him cornered in the Court of Miracles before the explosion had gone off. Porthos had abandoned the spot immediately, heart in his throat as he fretted over Athos.

Miguel was still out there, somewhere. The idea of him being loose while Athos and D'Artagnan were missing made Porthos's gut clench itself into knots. If they were out there, _hurt,_ because of the insane machinations of that madman…

Treveille sighed. "I'll have to report to the King soon. The Queen can't stall forever," he told them. He turned to Porthos, eyes sad. "With Athos gone, responsibility for the Garrison falls to you Porthos," he told him. Porthos nodded. He had already assumed as much. He exhaled a shuddering breath.

 _Damn it, Athos, where are you?_

They fell into silence for a long moment, broken only by the groans of injured people filling the halls and rooms of the Garrison. Porthos stared at the ceiling, mind spinning. Leadership did not sit well with him. Not because he couldn't do it, but because he didn't want to do it _alone._

"Who's going to tell Constance?" Elodie asked softly. Porthos's heart sank. He had nearly forgotten about Constance. She certainly wasn't going to be happy about her missing husband either.

Adelina pushed herself away from the desk. "I'll do it," she volunteered. "I'm going back out there to help Rene…"

"No need," Aramis interrupted as he stormed into the room, Constance and Sylvie at his heels. Porthos almost sagged with relief. For a moment, he had thought _all_ his brothers missing.

His relief quickly turned into alarm however, when he saw the emotions crossing Aramis's face at lightning speed, as if he couldn't focus on one long enough to suit the others. Frustration, guilt, rage, and was that… Fear?

"Aramis?" Treveille asked, watching him with wariness. "Did you get Miguel?"

Aramis slammed a palm against the table angrily. When he lifted his hand, Porthos saw a small crinkled paper lying there. He growled as his eyes skimmed the words.

 _I have your brothers…_

Realization surged through him making his chest tighten with terror that quickly transmuted to fury. "That bastard!" he hissed, as Adelina snatched the paper, eyes roaming the words quickly. When she had finished reading it, she sighed and handed the note to Constance, who gasped at the message.

"That _bastard_ has Athos and D'Artagnan," Aramis agreed, looking as irate as Porthos felt. "This must have been part of Miguel's plan all along. All of this, the prison break, the Italians, the bombs… They were all a diversion. He was never trying to escape the city. He's been trying to separate us so he could kidnap them," he growled.

"To what end?" Treveille contemplated. "Athos is Captain of the Musketeers, yes, but D'Artagnan….?"

Aramis waved an impatient hand. "It has nothing to do with what they are, Minister. It's _who_ they are," he grumbled, one foot tapping speedily. His dark brows thundered, tension evident in every muscle. "Miguel _knows_ I'll come for them. That's why he left that damned note. They're his leverage," he explained.

Constance set the note down, shaking her head. "I…" She gulped, and Porthos reached out to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly. "I don't understand. I thought Miguel wants to destroy the Musketeers because he thinks they're responsible for killing the Spanish Minister," she stammered.

Aramis crossed his arms. "Miguel knows the Musketeers did no such thing. He wants _me,"_ his voice cracked on the last word, guilt shining clear in his eyes. Porthos squared his shoulders.

"Well, he can't ' _ave_ you, _or_ Athos _or_ D'Artagnan," he harrumphed. His eyes scanned the room. "We need a rescue plan," he pointed out. Aramis nodded, patting the pistols at his hips assuredly.

"I'm already on it," he agreed.

"Does the note have a meeting place?" Treveille asked.

"The abandoned chateau on the outskirts of the city," Sylvie answered. Porthos blanched.

"And he just wants you? He'll turn Athos and D'Artagnan over if you turn yourself over to him?" Treveille wondered. Aramis nodded, tapping the note agitatedly.

"That's what it says. No matter. I'm not giving myself away nor am I allowing him to hold my brother's captive," then, fixing Porthos with a stern look, he added: "But you, my dear Porthos, are staying here," Porthos snorted.

"You're funny, 'Mis. Tell us another joke."

"I'm serious. With Athos gone, responsibility for the Garrison falls to you and Constance. Paris is on fire. The injured are coming here by the wagon loads. Paris needs the Musketeers," he stepped up to lay a hand on Porthos's shoulder. It felt heavy, like the lead weight of his full belief in him. "It needs _you, mon ami."_

Porthos's jaw clenched. He was more than exhausted of hearing about what others needed from him, about duty. What did he care for the rest of the world, the world that had sent him to war while scorning him because of his skin color? _No,_ he thought viciously. _I know who I owe my loyalty too_. "My _brothers_ need me," he murmured.

"I'll bring them back, old friend. What do you think Athos would have you do?" Porthos's righteousness vanished as soon as it had come.

"I'm not Athos," Porthos mumbled, even as he knew he had been caught. Despite his own issues with the world at large, duty was the backbone of Athos's life. To disregard it- even to save his life- would be like snapping their brother in half. Athos would never forgive him.

"Aramis is right, Porthos," Treveille piped in. "I know you don't like it, but you're needed here. I must appear before the King soon to give a report, and with those bombs still out there, we need to ensure the safety of our citizens. You need to be here."

"Athos and D'Artagnan will be returned safely," Adelina promised, moving to stand beside Aramis supportively. She crossed her arms and nodded to Constance, including her in the assurance. "Me and Rene will go in together."

"Will Miguel hurt them?" Constance asked, quietly.

Aramis shook his head, bouncing on his heels as if eager to leave. "I doubt it. What reason would he do so? He just wants to lure me in, he has no issue with Athos or D'Artagnan," he explained.

Porthos stroked his beard, the clench of his gut increasing as his mind spun. "Yeah? Well, I'm wonderin why Miguel only took Athos and D'Artagnan. If he wants to lure you in, why not take me, too? Why not Adelina?" He snapped.

Adelina sighed, glanced at their brother reluctantly. "He's right, Rene, this could be another diversion. If you and I go to rescue the others, then the Garrison is left vulnerable…." She pointed out.

"And basically all of Paris is at the Garrison right now…" Sylvie added worriedly.

Aramis was silent for a long moment, evidently thinking. After a moment, he nodded and clapped Adelina on the shoulder. "You're right. Adelina, you stay here."

 _"What?!"_ Porthos and Adelina croaked in unison.

"You know Miguel's tactics, _hermanita._ The spies of the city understand that your word carries the weight of my authority. If the Garrison falls under attack, I trust you and Elodie to help Porthos mount a successful defensive. Sylvie's skills of mass organization are invaluable with the number of women and children here. Treveille is needed with Their Majesties, and Constance _is_ the Garrison. The only one who doesn't have a pressing need here is me. I'll rescue our brothers."

Adelina, if possible, looked more astonished than Porthos felt. He had not once seen Aramis without his shadow, the very idea scared him as much as being left behind while Athos and D'Artagnan were in danger. Adelina's eyes narrowed. "You're insane, Rene!" She snapped. Aramis waved a dismissive hand.

"I'll be fine."

"C'mon 'Mis," Porthos tried again, desperately. "Constance can run the Garrison without me. The women can defend our people better than any army could. I can't bear the thought of losin all three of you…"

Aramis's eyes softened. Fear he could understand, and fear for each other wasn't entirely novel either. Porthos could hardly remember a time when he had not feared for his brothers in some shape or form, and he imagined that Aramis felt the same.

Aramis leaned forward, lowered his voice so only Porthos could hear. "You aren't losing _any_ of us, brother. The last thing Miguel will expect is a one-man army. Trust me. I'll slip in, free Athos and D'Artagnan, and slip out. Simple," Porthos gulped.

"It would be if you weren't a bloody idiot," he replied, only half-jokingly. Aramis caught unto the seriousness and returned it, eyes grave.

"Porthos, I swear to you on _your_ life, I will bring Athos and D'Artagnan home. And I will accompany them," he turned to Adelina, setting a hand on her shoulder. "I won't leave you. Ever," he said, and the words seemed to have some meaning to them. Adelina relaxed visibly. She nodded.

"You'd better keep to that promise. I _will_ come after you," she threatened. Aramis shivered, eyes wide with fake terror as he shook his head.

"I-I'm quaking in my boots," he assured her. Adelina rolled her eyes, punched him on the shoulder playfully. Aramis looked up at Porthos with a small half smile.

"Are you going to let me go?" He asked.

"Never," Porthos quipped immediately, extending a reluctant hand. Aramis grasped it, and he pulled him into a hug at once. "But I know you'll bring them back, and yourself too. Just be careful, eh? Between you and those other two, I'll be losin ten years off my life already," he said. Aramis grinned, unrepentant.

"You can't possibly blame _me_ for your aging years, Porthos," he pouted. Then he ducked as Porthos swung at his head, laughing.

"Be careful, 'Mis," Constance told him, biting her bottom lip worriedly. Aramis bowed low over her hand, kissing the knuckle.

"I'll bring him home to you, _ma Cherie_. I promise," he vowed earnestly. Then, with a final glance at Porthos and Adelina, he turned on a heel and vanished. Porthos stared at the door for another long moment until Treveille called him, insisting that they come up with a plan for taking care of the Garrison.

Then, Porthos let his focus cling to a mission, and ignored the ache of his heart.


	20. Chapter 20

Aramis had not had the occasion to perform many rescue missions in the past five years. The few times where he could have been a hero, he and Adelina had mainly saved orphans or women from the cruel boredom of soldiers. Overall, he took more lives than he saved. That was his job ever since being sent away by Rochefort.

He prayed that God would not take his brother's lives in recompense.

"I know," he whispered, heart thundering. Despite all his assurances to Porthos and Constance, he knew what this was about. It was about vengeance, and such rage was irrational. It sought only to inflict the same scars that had been inflicted. Aramis let out a slow breath, trying to ease the clench of his gut.

 _"It's your turn to lose a brother, Rene. Your turn to suffer loss."_

But he had suffered loss. So much of it that it left him breathless and frothing with self-hatred some nights. Without the steady presence of his friends, he might have drowned by now. He suddenly wished he could have explained that to Miguel before the death of Alvaro. He longed for some semblance of the relationship they had once shared.

He closed his eyes briefly. The golden cross that had inhabited his collarbone was missing, sold to some merchant in Spain, but he could feel its weight on his heart. A silent symbol of a man long gone, but not forgotten. He placed a fist where it used to be, trying to remember the ridges of the once beloved object.

"I know I've done wrong. I know I've disappointed You, and I have sinned and fallen to temptation, I know. I know. Just…" Aramis released another shuddering breath as the chateau came into his line of sight. The old building still towered, despite its crumbling stature. In the distance, the mid-day sun had given way for afternoon, casting angry red shards of sunlight on the ground. Beyond that, rain clouds rolled in from the North, the image speared by the tip of the old chateau.

His horse slowed to a trot at a click of his tongue. Aramis shook his head, trying to dispel the sudden memories that flooded into his mind. No doubt Miguel had chosen this Chateau, surrounded by a smaller ring of abandoned stables, for that exact reason.

 _"Hermano, hermano…."_

The scars along his hands and chest tingled. The intution sitting heavy in his gut, he suddenly regretted not allowing Adelina to accompany him."Don't take my brothers. Take me. I have done wrong, but they…"

 _"No lo sabía. Por favor, hermano, por favor_ …"

He sighed once, and jumped from the horse, glancing at the cracked windows half dug into the dirt. No doubt Miguel would keep Athos and D'Artagnan trapped below. "They are _innocent._ They are righteous. They deserve _better,"_ he finished his fervent prayer, hoping that it would make it to the gates of Heaven. And that he was not too late. He would never forgive himself if he had to break his promise to not only Porthos and Adelina, but Constance and Sylvie.

Aramis glanced around, noted the emptiness of the dirt road behind him. The house creaked mournfully, but it was only the wind blowing that made it so. He could not tell if anyone resided inside.

He scoffed. More than likely Miguel was lying in wait, but he would allow Aramis to rescue his brothers. No use in keeping them all shackled when the other assassin only wanted Rene.

 _If he wants me_ , Aramis decided kicking at the dirt encrusted windows at his feet. _He'll have to come downstairs and get me then._ He slipped past the broken shards of glass into the basement. The only light came from behind him as he landed inside, crouching. Aramis unclipped his pistols slowly, eyeing the dank space. He could see the outline of a door to his left. The ceiling was low, the floor dirty and spattered with various wine stains.

Something about it was familiar. Aramis didn't have time to ruminate. He unlatched the pistols from his weapons belt and crept to the door.

It was hanging off the hinges, a decrepit old thing. "Athos?" Aramis called softly as he pushed past it, one pistol raised. He saw nothing except a semi darker hallway made of stone. This was obviously once used as a storage space. Old crates lay to his left and right, the wood rotten and insect infested. He could hear them skittering and chewing through the floorboards and shivered.

 _"Hermano, por favor deje de. Lo Siento. Lo siento!"_

Focus. He had to focus. His brothers were down here somewhere. "Athos!" He croaked out, throat tight. "Athos! D'Artagnan? Can you hear me?" He checked the doors to the right and left, note the numerous wine stains. He could hear wind whistling through the doors to his right and left, and rubbed his arms, trying to dispel the pervading chill.

Why was this place so damned _familiar?_

"Umphf!" Aramis stopped in his tracks as the muted groan reached his ears. His heart skipped a beat.

"D'Artagnan!" He gasped, surging forward to press his ear against a pad locked door to his right. Suddenly, the door jolted with a loud bang, as if someone had kicked it. Aramis smiled and knelt. With quick fingers, he maneuvered a piece of metal into the lock. He could hear the mechanism inside swiveling slowly beneath his ministrations. It seemed to take centuries.

 _C'mon… C'mon…_

He shoved the door open the second he heard it click into place. Aramis cried out as sudden light assaulted his eyes, raising a hand against the sudden influx.

"A'ais!" A muffled voice shouted. Aramis blinked at the direction of the sound, trying to clear his vision. When he looked up, he inhaled sharply. Across the room were Athos and D'Artagnan, gagged and haggard looking. The afternoon sun washed over the room from the small window above their heads, revealing the glint of rope secured about their wrists.

Both were being held up by two wooden beams sticking out of the wall, their toes just touching the ground. Miguel had just left them there to hang, like _dried meat_. Aramis surged forward, drawing his main gauche as he did so.

"Are you alright?" He hissed, sawing through the ropes binding Athos. A wave of fury washed over him when he noticed the deep purple bruise beneath Athos's right eye, and the trickle of dried blood down D'Artagnan's temple.

Athos collapsed when Aramis cut him down, snatching the gag from his mouth with trembling hands. He spat at the ground, trying to dislodge the taste as Aramis did the same to D'Artagnan. "Athos, D'Artagnan, are you hurt?" Aramis repeated, easing D'Artagnan to the ground beside their captain. His knee was swollen again.

"We're good, Mis," D'Artagnan gasped when he had freed himself of his own gag. He set his forehead on his knees, breathing heavily. "My head hurts. Miguel knocked me out," he explained when Aramis hovered over him worriedly, gently probing at his temple.

"I'll _kill_ him," Aramis growled.

"How did you find us?" Athos inquired, his voice scratchy from weariness.

"I'll explain later," Aramis gently touched the swollen flesh around Athos's eye. "Did he do this to you?" He whispered, voice trembling with ire. Athos nodded, lying his head against the wall tiredly.

"It isn't the worst thing to happen to me," he caught Aramis's hand, and gave it a light squeeze. "You know that. And I may have been a bit… Cheeky while being dragged in here," he admitted.

"I'll kill him."

Athos's eyes twinkled. "I imagine, but first we should take our leave. I assume the cavalry is right behind you?" Aramis grinned.

"Not this time, _mon ami_ ," Athos's eyebrows shot up.

"Porthos let you come here alone?" He demanded.

" _Constance_ let you come here alone?" D'Artagnan added, sounding even more aghast. Aramis shook his head, gently grasping D'Artagnan by the arms to haul him to his feet. He took the hand Athos outstretched, pulling him along also.

"I am my own man, you know," Aramis huffed, handing Athos one of his pistols. He helped D'Artagnan limp into the hallway, Athos following them cautiously. "I can make my own decisions."

"You're a reckless idiot," D'Artagnan accused him as they made their way through the halls. "Who doesn't need to be making his own decisions."

"Says the one who was captured. What were you even doing near the bomb site? You were supposed to be helping the wounded. On a _horse_ ," Aramis scolded him. D'Artagnan blushed, mumbling something beneath his breath. Athos rolled his eyes affectionately.

"He came looking for me," he explained. "When the explosion went off. I was nowhere near it. I was diffusing another bomb a few blocks away, waiting for Elodie. One moment I hear a large explosion, and the next I run into the smoke only to see D'Artagnan get knocked out…"

"Sounds very gallant! Were you at least on the horse like I told you?" Athos actually chuckled. D'Artagnan lightly kicked Aramis's shin.

"Naturally, he was not," Athos agreed. "Though I can hardly fault him. Because of course, in my haste to get to him, I wasn't watching my back. I woke up a few hours ago when Miguel began dragging me in here." Aramis shook his head slowly, hardly daring to breathe. All of this- the bombs, the escape, everything- had all been to get to him.

Guilt built inside him, but he shoved it away. Anger was what he needed right now.

"Aramis," D'Artagnan bit out as he stumbled. Aramis slowed his pace, tightening his grip until D'Artagnan straightened, nodding that he could proceed. Aramis continued, finally turning the corner and gently pressing D'Artagnan's head down so they could fit into the doorway. "There's another man here. A Spaniard. We heard him and Miguel speaking…"

"But in Spanish, so as not to be understood," Miguel finished cheerfully from inside. Athos leveled his pistol at him immediately, and Aramis drew his sword. Only to feel it yanked from his grip by the well-placed violence of a bullet. Athos hissed in pain as the same bullet pierced his fingers, making him drop the pistol.

"A warning shot," Miguel told them, lowering his own gun. "Don't make me put one in your heads," Aramis scoffed and turned to his brother, who had gone stiff beside him.

"Athos, here," he said quietly, unwinding D'Artagnan's arm from around his neck. He passed their injured youngest to Athos, gently. "Take D'Artagnan, get him upstairs and out of the house. My horse is tethered outside. Go."

D'Artagnan's hand latched onto his collar. "We're not leaving you!" He cried.

"I'll catch up soon. Miguel and I have a conversation that is long overdue," he glanced at the other man, who smirked with such familiar teasing that it made his heart ache.

Athos's eyes, in the dark, were conflicted. "How do you know this isn't a trap?" he demanded.

"It _is_ a trap," Aramis snorted. "But he won't kill me."

"Not yet," Miguel affirmed.

Aramis gave them a reassuring smile, clapping Athos on the back. He squeezed the taut muscles of his shoulder, hoping to convey everything he could not say in the touch.

 _I'm sorry I got you into this._

 _Please go._

 _I won't let anything happen to you._

"Don't worry," he said aloud, when he saw the desperation on their faces. "I know what I'm doing! Go, go!" Gently, he pried D'Artagnan's hand from his shirt front, kissing his head quickly. "If you keep putting pressure on that knee, you'll make it worse. And _you_ need a warm rag for that eye. I'll see you later," he said.

Athos leaned in, glancing suspiciously at Miguel. He clasped Aramis's shoulder, staring into his eyes intently. "Swear to me," he commanded, fervently. "Swear to me you'll come home this time." Aramis smiled gently. He seemed to be making a great deal of promises lately, but he supposed he had already committed himself to this one. He gave a single nod.

"And every time," he promised.

Athos glared at Miguel silently, obviously debating something in his mind, before turning. "Let's go," he murmured to D'Artagnan, who glanced at Aramis worriedly. He slapped his arm as he and Athos hobbled from the room.

"Watch yourself," he tossed over his shoulder, in parting. Aramis listened to their footsteps echo down the hallway tensely. Just because Miguel didn't seem keen on killing him did not mean he would not employ mercenaries to ambush his wounded friends. Aramis had seen what this man could and would do to accomplish his means. He would not underestimate him again.

After a tense silence, he heard the neigh of a horse, and relaxed. They were free. He turned his attention back to the assassin in front of him, kneeling to collect his blade casually. "You strung them up like butchered meat," he observed, careful not to let his boiling fury sneak into his tone.

Miguel placed his pistol back into his weapons pouch, expressionless. They met eyes, and for a moment, Aramis saw a flash of a previous life. A little boy with sparkling brown pupils, and an insatiable laugh and endless curiosity. They had trailed each other like puppies, at once breaking and loyally obeying some unspoken pact.

Then Miguel spoke, and Aramis remembered that he had shattered that pact long ago. "You're lucky I didn't put a bullet in them. It's what you would have done," Miguel's voice cracked. "It's what you did. To _my_ brother," he retorted.

Aramis shook his head, deciding to drop their favorite act. He sheathed his sword, putting his hands on his hips. "Lucero, you seem to forget _who I am_ ," he softened his tone when Miguel-Lucero- stiffened. _I don't have the right to lecture him anymore_ , Aramis reprimanded himself.

He splayed his hands humbly. "I am truly sorry for what I did to Alvaro, I know you would not have loved him if he were not a good man, but I had a duty to my country…" Lucero's eyes flashed as he made a slicing motion in the air, effectively cutting the words from Aramis's throat.

"No, Aramis! _You've_ forgotten who you are. You're half Spanish. Our mother was Spanish, or do you not think about her?" His heart ached.

 _"Se Valiente, mi amor. Ve con Dios."_

"Of course I do! I think of how ashamed she would be… of us all. How much she loved us. I think of her laugh," _of her smile, of her frown. I look for her face in the mirror, in the bible, in the church and in other women. Not a day goes past when I do not try to remember every word she ever spoke and draw strength from it._

But that ability had fled, along with any good inside him. But they both knew who was to blame for that. Lucero snorted bitterly.

"She wasn't laughing when that French bastard strangled her in the bedroom," Aramis flinched away from the sudden image. It had haunted him ever since discovering that his mother had been murdered in a whore's brothel.

"I imagine not," he murmured. Then, he shook his head. "Lucero, there was _nothing_ any of us could have done…" He tried.

Lucero moved so suddenly that had Aramis been a stupider man, he wouldn't have caught it. As it was, he ducked the sudden punch Lucero threw his way, swiveling beneath the fist and spinning Lucero across the room toward the door. "Shut up!" Lucero shouted as he stumbled away, panting. "I'm tired of your excuses, Aramis. I'm tired of your selfishness. You _betrayed_ me, and not only me but our entire family! You're just like your French destroyer of a father…" The shrill screech of his sword registered before he had realized he was the one drawing it.

"Don't you dare compare me to him! I never even wanted to _know_ him!" Aramis yelled.

"Poor Aramis, stripped of his free-will," Miguel sing-songed sarcastically. "You've no idea what true helplessness feels like! What it is to watch the people you love _rot_ in your arms over and over again…" his voice cracked, and Aramis felt the guilt return, draining him. He lowered his sword an inch, sighing.

 _"Mi jo…"_ He tried again.

Lucero's eyes flashed, and Aramis caught a sheen of liquid along his brow. His face puffed red, and Aramis had a sudden memory from their childhood.

 _"Aramis, look, I can hold my breath!"_

 _"I don't think so!"_

 _"I can so…! Ah, no t-tickling!"_

"Don't call me that! I should have left you to rot in Alejo's basement…" Aramis shivered, eyes going wide as realization dawned on him.

He looked up at the roots wrapping long fingers around the ceiling and dripping into the room, horrified. He could almost feel the fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding him still, hear his father's booming timbre, _smell_ his rank breath.

 _"Rene! Stop fighting me!"_

 _"That's not my name!"_

Miguel grinned as he blanched. "Ah, you recognize this place then, huh? It was our brother's idea, originally. This was one of your father's estates. I remember you told me he locked you inside a basement just like this one once… I thought it'd be poetic to meet here again," he shrugged, jamming his hands into his pockets. "A pretty place once. Now, you see its true core," he said. Aramis inhaled a shuddering breath. That had happened a long time ago. He was a man now, and his father was long dead.

Now, he only had brothers, some of whom hated him as much as the others loved him. Aramis's shoulders slumped.

"What do you want from me, hermano?" _how do I make it up to you?_ "If you didn't bring me here to kill me, then why?" Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the darkness. Aramis heard his shoes clack against the dirt floor as he stepped into the dim light next to Lucero.

"Because you and I have unfinished business, little brother," he gasped as terror froze his limbs.

 _No._

"Alejo," he breathed, recognizing the handsome features of his eldest sibling. He had barely changed in the three years since Aramis had last seen him. His mustache curled over his upper lip and down the sides of his face, curling beneath his chin. His hair-chocolate brown- curled around his head like the smooth rolls of ocean waves.

He stood erect, tall, dressed in the deep blues and oranges of the Spanish Court. By his side, a sword poked from his weapon's belt. Decorative in court, but Aramis recognized the weapon. An involuntary whimper pushed past his lips as he scrabbled backward, almost tripping over himself in his haste to escape that empty gaze.

"In court," Alejo continued, in that silky slow drawl of their mothers. "I am known as Alejandro, emissary of King Phillipe II of Spain," Alejo shrugged, calmly making his way further into the room. "We all have our masks," he supposed. Aramis's back touched the wall, and he shook his head.

"No. You can't be here…" he stammered.

Alejo's eyes sharpened, like they had when Aramis had attempted to reconcile with him. He set a hand on the pommel of his sword. Aramis flinched instinctively. "Why? Because you wish it so? Because you wish to banish me from your mind, the same as you did with everyone else in our family? Well, I am here, _hermano,_ and no one can save you this time," Aramis raised his own sword, painfully aware of the wall at his back.

"Stay away from me."

Alejo stopped in his advance, a slow smile spreading beneath his mustache. "No matter what I do now, you can't escape forever," he chuckled. "I bring with me a proposition from the King of Spain. It took a few months to talk him into it, I admit, but, well…. You and I have always been charmers, haven't we, _mi hermano?"_ Aramis glanced pleadingly at Miguel, but the other man was staring straight past him, into the air above his shoulder. His hands were folded behind his back, his feet pressed together, the stance of a soldier awaiting orders. Aramis knew he would not find help there. His pride fled him, sailing on the wings of his desperation. He had promised Athos he would come home. He had promised them all.

 _"Hermano, por favor…"_

Alejo continued his casual stroll in Aramis's direction. "I'm glad Lucero has finally come to see your true colors. You murdered my wife, and then his brother. So we've come bearing gifts of our own, straight from the broken heart of our mama," Alejo drew his sword. Their blades clashed, but fear had made his muscles weak. Aramis inhaled sharply as he was pressed against the wall, Alejo's blade resting just at the tip of his throat, his own sword arm trapped between his body and his brothers.

He gulped, staring into deep wells of inky blackness. "A treaty between France and Spain. It has a few stipulations. Lands, trading, the political stuff, but then there's a clause which demands the life of one _Rene, el francotirador_ …" Aramis shook his head as Alejo's blade nicked the skin. He writhed, one hand coming up to press against Alejo's shoulder. His fingers curled in his shirt, tugging.

"No! I won't go back!"

 _"Rene, just do as you're told!"_

 _"I want to go back!"_

Alejo snorted, his breath hot and moist on Aramis's cheek. "I don't think your king treasures your life more than he treasures peace, Aramis. He will hand you over, and then what I will do to you will be legal," he considered. Aramis felt tears sting his eyes.

 _Don't,_ he begged internally. _Don't take me back there._

"Please… Please don't. We're brothers. Family..."

Alejo's sword suddenly dipped, slicing a shallow cut down Aramis's chest, from his collarbone to belly button. He hissed, arching his back and renewing his struggles, but Alejo's hold was iron tight.

"You would rather traipse the country to protect your other brothers. Those damned Musketeers," Alejo's lips curled in disgust. "If I could have demanded their heads, I would have. But, time will tell. Maybe Miguel can find an Italian mercenary that will handle them," he decided. Aramis's breath caught in his throat. Alejo wanted _them?_ Protectiveness, so instinctual it was ingrained into his bones, reared to the surface.

 _"Then don't leave… Please…Please don't leave. Aramis, these past five years have been hell. Don't make me go through it again. Come home. I'm beggin ya, alright? Come home,"_ Aramis lunged, sudden strength flowing through his veins. It took Alejo off guard, he retreated a moment, but not long enough to be disarmed by Aramis's frantic swordplay. Miguel stiffened, drawing his own sword. But he did not move, only watched the battle intently.

"I swear if you lay a finger on them…!" Aramis growled, pressing forward. Alejo met his parries, grazing Aramis's thighs. He stumbled, gasping in pain as his legs burned, but did not stop.

"You couldn't protect them once, Aramis. What makes you think you can now? Or especially when I have you in chains?" Aramis ducked a blow that would have taken off his head. Suddenly, roaring agony surged from his sides. He cried out, stumbling away from the pain instinctively. His shoulder crashed against something solid- a wall- and his vision swam with red dots.

He clutched at the burning agony with one hand, feeling his fingers come away slicked and shiny with his blood. He looked up, alarmed, to see Miguel standing across from him, mouth set into a grim line and the tip of his sword dripping warm blood. His blood. Aramis's side screamed where he had been stabbed. The gash was deep, pumping blood. He bit back a moan of pain, doubling over and pressing a hand to the wound.

"On the bed. Same as how our mother looked. Or perhaps I'll spare you her fate and give it to Adelina instead. A prettier target," Aramis grunted as Alejo kicked him in the stomach, the hit driving the air from his lungs. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around his bleeding sides and aching ribs, gasping.

"How dare you call yourself our brother! Our _family_? You don't even know what that means!" Alejo shouted angrily, slashing the blade across his vulnerable arms. Aramis felt tears sting his eyes.

 _"Come home. I'm beggin ya, alright? Come home."_

"Alejo, stop," he pleaded after Alejo kicked him again. He raised a trembling hand. "Stop please. If you want, kill me now. But leave them out of this. Please, Alejo, have mercy…" his voice cracked. Alejo suddenly knelt beside him, taking a handful of Aramis's hair in his grip and raising his head. Aramis groaned when he was punched in the face, sending his neck snapping to the side.

 _I'm sorry, Porthos. Maybe I deserve this._

"Like you did," Alejo roared, spittle flying from his mouth. "When you put a bullet into Justina's heart? _My wife's_ heart!?" He screamed. Miguel approached cautiously, lying a hand on his shoulder.

" _Hermano_ , don't," he cautioned. Alejo nodded, teeth gritted. Aramis could hear Athos behind him, gentle hands pressed to the sides of his face. These two weren't the only family he had. He had others, and they _needed_ him.

 _"Aramis, you always complain I don't see the good in myself but God, can't you see it in yourself? You have saved more lives than you've ever endangered. Including mine. No matter what you've done, you do not deserve to suffer for a bad choice any more than we all do!"_

Aramis settled his hands beneath his body, testing his own strength. "I didn't know!" He growled. Alejo seemed to snap at the seams. He chucked his sword at Aramis' head, but Miguel shoved him. Aramis rolled.

"YES YOU DID! You've always known, Aramis, and you've always turned your back on us! Well, no more!" He found his feet, and pressed his hands against Lucero's chest, pushing with all his might. It was barely enough to send the assassin stumbling, but it was enough to clear space between them. Alejo lunged for his shirt collar. "I stopped making excuses for you, and now it is time you do the same. It is time you were punished!"

Aramis smacked his hand away, ignoring the twinges and aches of his cuts and bruises as he staggered to the doorway, fairly tripping in his haste to escape. The long hallway became blurred at the edges and his heart galloped in his chest. The wound on his side was aflame with agony, but Aramis ignored it all. He just needed to get out of here. He needed to find Athos, Porthos, Adelina, someone… That was all he needed.

He heard Lucero yelling behind him and pushed himself up the stairs of his father's old chateau harder. "Aramis, Aramis come back here, you coward!" Lucero screamed. Aramis sobbed when Alejo's fierce promise broke the silence of the fields.

"Run away all you like, my little brother! We will meet again soon!"

He ran.


	21. Chapter 21

"He should have been back by now," Adelina gritted from between clenched teeth. Athos nodded tiredly, running a hand over his face.

His heart thumped a steady rhythm of anxiety in his chest, fueled by the ever-present fear that he had let Aramis down once more. He had abandoned him.

Again.

It had been a full day since he had last seen him, Athos and D'Artagnan stumbling into the Garrison in the wee hours of the morning. Porthos had welcomed them with enthusiastic relief, rushing him to the physician whilst Constance eagerly checked over her own husband. Adelina had stood by, arms crossed, as Athos was force fed some awful concoction that had sent him into a deep sleep for the reminder of the day.

He had woken only to discover that it was nearly mid-morning and Aramis had yet to return. He sighed, placing his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands.

His command over the Garrison had been restored when he woke, but he could hardly focus on the numerous tasks required of him.

Athos fairly jumped out of his skin when Porthos set heavy hands on his shoulders, gently massaging the still sore muscles. Having hung by the arms for several hours made the joints sear with pain whenever he moved.

D'Artagnan, likewise, sat in the seat across from him rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes. He looked much better than he had the day before, and the swelling around his knee had ebbed away, leaving only minute discomfort, D'Artagnan claimed.

Athos had known his old protégé too long to believe that lie, but he let it go in light of larger problems.

"We should go look for him," Constance said, determinedly. She stood behind D'Artagnan. Their hands were linked in a silent show of support.

"We know where the chateau is," Treveille agreed from his post by Athos's window, gazing down into the courtyard below.

His expression was grave and weary in the light. "But the fact remains that the Spanish Emissary is missing," he groaned.

"Who cares?" Adelina snorted at once. She was pacing the small space, brows scrunched into a thunderous line of discontent.

Porthos said she had been that way all day, performing her duties as commander of the spies and assassins with brutal efficiency that bespoke of deep concern. "My brother is missing."

"I'm sure we can do both," Sylvie broke in before Treveille could scold Adelina for the outburst. In truth, Athos was thankful that she, at least, was speaking the words none of them would say.

"You said there was another man with Miguel," Elodie reminded Athos, touching his shoulder. He looked up into steely but compassionate eyes. "Did you see him?"

Athos shook his head. "No," he groaned. "We only heard them speaking through the door. I saw flashes of color, perhaps. He was wearing blue, I think," he said.

"Like the blue of Aramis's sash," D'Artagnan added.

"And Miguel didn't mention anything that sounded like a name?" Adelina urged.

"They were very cautious. They must have known we could have been listening," Athos's fists clenched in his lap. He shook them out, agitated, and tore at his hair. "I can't believe I left him. _Again_ ," he groaned. Porthos knelt by his side and Athos stiffened, preparing himself for condemnation.

He was shocked when Porthos did no such thing. "Don't blame yourself, Thos," he murmured. "It was the only way you and D'Artagnan were gonna escape. Besides, we can't give up on him yet. He promised us all he'd be back," Athos's head snapped up, astonished at the genuine forgiveness in Porthos's voice. Likewise, Porthos's eyes only held sincerity.

Athos only shook his head, overcome with emotion. His own words from years earlier echoed in his mind. _"If he dies, I'll never forgive myself."_

And he hadn't, nor had he ever learned how to carry the guilt of Aramis's death without pain. Why would he risk doing it again? He bowed his head, exhaled a shuddering breath.

Sylvie knelt on his other side, her calm presence soothing his frayed nerves. She set a hand on his knee. "How's the head?" She inquired softly, gently touching the mass of swollen flesh beneath his eyes. Above them, Adelina, Treveille and Elodie were still arguing over the priorities of who was going to be rescued.

"Your spies can look for Aramis. I need the rest of you here."

"I don't trust anyone else to take care of Rene! I'm going myself!"

"I'll feel better when Aramis is safe," Athos breathed, patting her hand. He straightened in his seat, shoving his fear and guilt to the back of his mind. He couldn't afford the emotion right now. Aramis needed him, and he would not fail a second time.

Adelina looked ready to charge up to Treveille and shoot him in the knee. Athos very much feared she might. Porthos stood. "I'm going after Rene! _His Majesty_ the King can wait!" She snapped.

"Or," Sylvie cried. "We can go after them separately. What's the emissaries' name, Minister?" Treveille flashed her an irritated glance, not in the least bit fooled, but sighed.

"Alejandro," he replied. "Alejandro Andreas," Adelina suddenly halted, her expression morphing into horror. She swiveled around to stick Treveille with a shocked look. Elodie scrambled to her feet, also gazing at him with newfound alarm.

"What did you just say?" She demanded.

Treveille, taken aback by her ferocity, blinked. "Alejandro Andreas. Why?" He asked.

"Have you seen him? What does he look like?" Elodie asked, as Adelina's face crumpled. She looked as if someone had just spit in her face. Athos's stomach flipped. He had never seen the young woman look so… Fearful.

"Of course. I greeted him when he arrived. He has a thin face, tanned skin, large eyes… Come to think of it, he reminds me of Aramis…" Athos exchanged a glance with Porthos, wonderingly.

While it wasn't logically unreasonable that a Spanish emissary should resemble their half Spanish friend, something about Adelina's expression made Athos's heart jump.

"No," Adelina breathed. Elodie rushed to her side, gripped her hand tightly.

"Do you think its…?" She demanded.

"We have to go!" Adelina burst out, snatching Athos's pistol from the desk. She shoved it into his arms, eyes wide and frenzied. Athos stood, along with D'Artagnan. "We have to find Rene right now!"

"Adelina!" Constance gasped, grabbing the younger woman by the arm. "What is it? What are you…?"

"We _have to go_ ," Adelina repeated, emphatically. She looked up, her gaze pleading. "If we don't, that man will _kill_ him. Do you hear me? We have to find him, if Alejo hasn't already," Athos gasped, moving before she had even finished the sentence.

"I don't understand," Treveille stated. "Why would an emissary….?" Before he could finish, Athos heard stomping along the stairs.

He looked up, shocked, as the door slammed open and Aramis fairly dove inside, stumbling to his knees.

"Mis?" D'Artagnan gasped, astounded. Athos remained rooted to his place, shocked to his core. There were tears streaming down Aramis's face, his breath staggering from his mouth in desperate gasps such as Athos had never heard or seen. His hair had come loose from its ponytail, flying wildly about his face. His shirt front was ripped, exposing a chest darkened with bruises and cuts.

Small rivulets of blood ran down his shoulders, thighs, neck. But the most shocking of all were his eyes- blown wide with terror. Athos realized he had seen fear on Aramis before, in battle fear was a stalwart companion, but never… Never like this. This was frantic, desperate, paralyzing terror and it didn't belong to a man like Aramis. Constance and Sylvie gasped.

"Aramis!?" Porthos asked, sounding almost as frightened as Athos felt. Aramis didn't seem to hear him. He landed, hard, on the floor.

He had an arm wrapped about his middle as he half crawled, half dragged himself to the furthest end of the room, eyes glued to the doorway. His expression was one of complete agony.

Adelina rushed to his side, trying to kneel in front of him. "Rene!?" She called. She reached out to grab his shoulder, but the gentle touch made him jump and cry out, scrambling away from her right into Porthos, who fell to his knees at once.

Porthos caught Aramis by the shoulders, holding him in place anxiously.

"No!" Aramis shrieked. " _Alejo, por favor deje de. Lo Siento. Lo siento! Por favor, hermano!"_ He cried, thrashing in Porthos's grip. Athos looked up, met Treveille's astonished gaze.

"Mis!" Porthos called, struggling to keep him still. "Aramis, it's me! I've got you, Aramis. You're safe!"

Adelina rounded to kneel in front of Aramis, cupping his chin and swiping his tears with her thumbs. "Rene. _Aramis! Soy yo. Estoy Aqui!"_ She said. Aramis did not relent. He only flinched away from her as if burned by her touch, sobbing.

 _"Por favor… Por favor deje de…"_

Porthos lowered his mouth to their brother's ear, locking his arms around Aramis. "Aramis," he whispered calmly. "Wherever you are, it's over. I've got you. I'm here, Aramis."

The whispered assurance seemed to do the trick. Aramis abruptly stilled, his eyes clearing of their deep panic. He turned his head, blinked at Porthos as if waking from a long nightmare. "P-Porthos?" he stammered.

Porthos nodded and let out an explosive sigh of relief. "You tryin to give me heart attacks?" He demanded of Aramis. The other man merely swiveled in his grasp, throwing his arms around Porthos and hiding his face in the crook of his neck, babbling something incoherent.

Athos ungracefully stood, flinging his chair to the side and launching himself over his desk. D'Artagnan was already kneeling on Aramis's right side.

Porthos had already dwarfed Aramis in his arms, brows creased with concern. "What? Aramis, I can't hear you. What is it? Are you… Did someone _stab_ you!?" Porthos voice grew higher at each question, lifting a shaking hand.

Athos's heart stopped when he saw it was covered with blood. Porthos at once started sifting through Aramis's hair and clothes, searching for the wound. D'Artagnan instantly tore strips from his shirt, offering the makeshift bandages without word.

Above them, Adelina was doing the same, and Sylvie had already started rummaging in Athos's drawers for the sewing kit. "What the 'ell!? Who did this to you?" Porthos cried, as Aramis fairly curled into his chest, knees pulled tight against his body and arms wrapped so tightly around Porthos's neck Athos was surprised he was not strangling him.

His words came out muffled. "Don't… Don't let them… I can't go back. Please, Porthos," he pleaded nonsensically. Athos's heart clenched. He had never heard Aramis _beg_ before. The very idea was ludicrous.

Whoever did this was going to _die._

"Hey, hey," Porthos breathed, stopping mid examination to run a hand through Aramis's thick curls. "It's alright. No one is going to hurt you, Aramis. I won't let them," he growled protectively.

Aramis just shook his head, shivering. Athos opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, two figures appeared in the doorway. One was wearing the seal of the Spanish Court, the deep blue of sovereignty.

When Aramis heard the door, he flinched violently, a whimper escaping.

Athos knew, with painful clarity, that these men had been the ones to torture Aramis. D'Artagnan had evidently come to the same conclusion. The Gascon drew his sword with a cry of rage.

"YOU!" He roared, surging to his feet. He leveled the weapon at Miguel threateningly. "You son of a _bitch!_ What did you do to Aramis!?" He demanded. Athos saw red, and before he knew it, he was standing with a pistol in hand. He leveled it in the face of the man beside Miguel, ignoring Treveille's gasp of surprise at his daring.

"Take a single _step_ toward him," Athos warned. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, waves of fury making his blood boil. "And I will put a bullet in your head," his finger tensed on the trigger.

The man next to Miguel didn't flinch. He met Athos's eyes. "If you harm me, Monsieur Athos, you will be hanged."

"Then I will die _smiling."_

"Athos," Aramis's choked voice begged at his back. "Athos, no."

Athos narrowed his eyes. Treveille suddenly stepped between them, his hands raised pacifically. He felt warm bodies take up position behind him and knew that Constance and Sylvie had also drawn or found weapons, an invincible bulwark between Miguel and Aramis. "Emissary Alejandro," Treveille began, looking toward the man to Miguel's right. "You're standing next to a wanted criminal," Athos scoffed.

"I am," Alejandro agreed. "And you've been harboring a wanted criminal for weeks now, Minister. Does your King know about that, I wonder?"

"Aramis is a Musketeer."

Alejandro guffawed. "Aramis is the renowned Rene, _El francotirador_. And that," he jabbed a finger at Adelina. "Is Sombra, his shadow. Otherwise known as Adelina. They're assassins. They murdered the Spanish minister," Alejandro said, with perfect serenity.

Athos stared, heart thundering. D'Artagnan's blade inched closer to Miguel, who had not stopped staring at Aramis since he arrived.

Adelina elbowed her way past them, Elodie at her heels. "I should kill you where you stand, _cerdo!"_ She hissed. "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

"I'm here to retrieve my brothers," Alejandro replied. His eyes focused on Aramis, shuddering in Porthos's arms in the back of the room. "All of them," a shiver went up Athos's spine.

"You're not going anywhere near him!" D'Artagnan declared. "A single shout and the entire Garrison will be in here," he threatened.

Alejandro didn't seem at all intimidated. He snickered instead, leaning forward so that his forehead was level with D'Artagnan's blade. "And then France will never see peace. Is that what you want, Musketeer? To go back to war?" Athos heard Constance growl behind him.

"Why are you here?" Treveille interrupted darkly.

"To give you the chance to say goodbye," Miguel piped in. "Alejandro has secured a deal in the peace provisions of France. Peace comes, but only after Rene is given to the Spanish government to pay for his crimes," Adelina gasped.

"Never!" She hissed in unison to Porthos.

"I'm afraid the choice isn't yours, _senorita._ Don't fret. We'll come for you next. Aramis," Alejandro raised his voice, clearly addressing their brother. Athos heard Aramis's feet scrape the ground as he tried to shy away from the malicious gaze.

"You're not takin 'im!" Porthos barked. "I don't care what provision you added. You'll never lay a finger on him!"

Alejandro ignored him. "Get your things in order now. You always knew this day was coming, _hermano,"_ Alejandro's eyes glinted with pure hatred, and Athos inhaled a sharp breath. "You always knew your days were numbered."

Aramis sobbed. "No… No, please…"

With that, Alejandro swiveled on his heels and calmly walked down the halls. Miguel started after him, but a soft voice halted him.

Athos looked down to see Aramis staring after the other man, one hand outstretched as if to grab him and yank him back. "Lucero… Brother, please…"

 _Brother?_

Miguel shook his head. "You had your chance, Aramis, and you chose wrong. Your reckoning has come," and with that he followed after Alejandro as silently as a fox.

When he had vanished from the doorway, Adelina, D'Artagnan and Athos moved as one. All three of them sprinted across the room, where Porthos was frantically trying to calm a desperate Aramis.

"Rene," Adelina murmured. "Rene, it's alright. We'll get this figured out. I won't let them harm you _, hermano,_ I promise. They won't ever hurt you again," she shushed him, stroking his hair.

Aramis just shook his head. "They'll come for me. They'll take me away," he wept.

Athos placed a hand on Aramis's shoulder, heart aching when he flinched away. "Look at me, Aramis," he commanded. Aramis did so, looking over his shoulder as if afraid he would be slapped if he didn't.

His eyes shone with such fear that Athos swore, in the deepest recesses of his heart, to see those two men dead for whatever they had done.

"No, they won't. No one will ever take you from us again. I swear it on my brother's grave," he said. Aramis just retreated into the safety of Porthos's arms.

"I swear it on my father's," D'Artagnan added, throwing his hand on top of Athos's.

"I swear it on my mother's," Porthos added grimly, squeezing Aramis to his side. Aramis stared at them as if he couldn't quite believe they were real. Then, after a moment, he went limp, eyes falling ashamedly.

"I want to come home," he whispered. "I want to come _home."_

"You can. You will, Aramis," Porthos promised him, kissing his wild curls. "Don't you worry. You're our brother and we'll protect you no matter what, alright? No matter what."

 _And to the men that would take you,_ Athos amended in his own mind as he patted Aramis on the shoulders and back. _I will either kill them or go to Hell trying._


	22. Chapter 22

Porthos allowed the door to close quietly behind him before exploding. "What the hell was that?!" He yelled, fists clenched as he spun to Adelina. She cringed at the loudness of his voice, and Athos held up a restraining hand.

"This isn't her fault," he reminded his brother. Porthos nodded, teeth gritted.

"I know," he ground out, slightly calmer. "Doesn't mean I'm not going to shoot someone in the next ten seconds if no one explains to me what's goin on!" He was shouting again. D'Artagnan slapped his arm, hushing him.

"Aramis is _sleeping,"_ he reminded their friend, as if they hadn't just all been crowded in Porthos's room, bandaging the numerous injuries Aramis sported. It was a miracle he had not bled out in Athos's office. He had managed to secure a piece of dirty cloth over the wound in his side, but even so had lost enough blood to bleach his skin a murky yellowish color.

As if his injuries didn't twist Athos's heart enough, Aramis had not ceased shivering, tears running helpless rivers down his cheeks throughout the entire ordeal. He had kept one hand fisted in Porthos's shirt, the other being squeezed into the grasp of Athos, D'Artagnan, Constance or Adelina at any given point as his cuts were cleaned and stitched.

Finally, secured in Porthos's bed and soothed by a constant stream of Spanish lullabies by Adelina, his stuttering sobs had turned into peaceful snores. "But I would also like to know," Constance brought a tray of tea, setting a cup before them each. Athos smelled chamomile and gave Constance a nod of thanks.

Sylvie stood next to him, slipped a hand into his own and squeezed. Elodie ventured to Adelina's side, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Adelina shook her head when Constance tried to offer her tea, biting her bottom lip with thundering brows.

She was obviously searching for words, but Athos had to admit he was not the most patient person at the moment. "We can't tell you everything," Elodie spoke up for the disheartened girl. "Only that those men are the epitome of evil and betrayal."

"Tired of secrets," Porthos harrumphed.

Elodie looked up and smiled with sad understanding. "Me too," she whispered. Porthos softened a little, his eyes swiveling to Adelina.

"Just start from the beginning, little sister," he invited. Adelina inhaled a deep breath and looked up at them with eyes too old for her young years.

"Three years ago," she began quietly. "Rene and I had infiltrated a Spanish nobleman's home. We posed as craftsman fleeing the war and worked as servants. Our plan was to get to the Spanish court through them, but in order to do that, we would need to give the nobleman's family a reason to travel to Madrid. A death in the family seemed a good enough reason," Athos inhaled sharply.

" _Aramis_ thought of this?" He croaked.

Adelina nodded, wrapped her arms around herself as if cold. Elodie hugged her against her side. "We had done it before," she whispered. "Sometimes it worked, other times not. We were sure it could work this time. The Andreas family was well-liked at court. It was reasonable they should seek help in Madrid, and we could get to Alvaro once there. Simple."

"But something went wrong," Elodie continued.

"You were there?" Sylvie asked. Elodie shook her head.

"I came in later, much later. But I know the tale. Aramis positioned himself in the balcony overseeing the gardens. He set his pistol on the head of the family, a man who whipped his tenants when they did not produce enough grain to sustain his children above their own. Aramis took the shot, but didn't realize he had been spotted…"

"By Senorita Justina," Adelina agreed. "She had caught sight of him through the flower pots. She was a loyal sister. She jumped in front of our target, taking the bullet that would have ended his life. She and the baby were lost. Rene grieves for her to this day."

"Oh, Aramis," D'Artagnan groaned, either in pity or sorrow.

"What we didn't know then, as we know now, was that she was the wife of a budding courts man named Alejandro…"

Athos groaned. "He thinks Aramis murdered his wife."

"All he knows is that Rene is an assassin. And he will not listen to reason. Rene and I abandoned the mission. He was too full of guilt to pursue the family any further. But somehow, Alejandro found out. We were ambushed a few weeks later in the countryside. I was knocked out, and Rene surrendered to save my life. I did not see him until three months later, and when I found him, he…." Adelina's voice cracked. She looked away, a lone tear running down her cheek.

Athos's heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"Alejandro sought revenge. He held Rene for three months in a dirty basement. Tortured him, day in, day out," Adelina's hands clenched at her sides, a deep fire igniting in her eyes. Athos suddenly was very glad not to be her enemy.

And sad, that she should understand such rage so young. "I searched everywhere for him! I barely slept, I couldn't eat until I found him. I would have done anything…!" She spat, looking at them with eyes that pleaded for understanding. Athos shifted feet, wondering how best to tell her that none of them blamed her. Porthos, as usual, was better with words. He reached forward and laid a hand on her arm.

"Hey, peace Adelina," Porthos assured her. "We know you did everything you could. You did good. You _found_ him," Adelina gave him a grateful smile, but shook her head.

"No. I didn't. Miguel found Rene; and freed him."

Constance gave a start. "What? Why?"

"I'll let Rene explain the details. Suffice to say, I found him half dead in a field a half day away from where he was held. Alejo had been… Merciless. I thought he would die, and he would have if not for Elodie," Adelina squeezed her hand.

"Adelina dragged him to my father's farm," Elodie explained. "He had already disgraced me by then. I was not allowed to step foot in the house, so I slept outside with the animals. Adelina brought Rene to me and asked for my assistance. He was dying. I helped them,"

"She _saved_ us. At great risk to herself," Adelina corrected, lying an affectionate hand on Elodie's shoulder. "I don't know if Rene would be here today if not for Elodie. It took almost a year, but we nursed him back to health."

A _year_? A year that Aramis had spent in agony and fear? Lying cold and beaten in a dirty barn while clinging to life? Athos felt a flush of warmth for these two women, followed by a keen sense of gratitude.

He very well could have lost Aramis, years ago, and none of them would ever have known. He would have died with his brothers thinking him long dead, denied a soldier's last rites or the relief of ever seeing his beloved city again.

D'Artagnan looked stricken. Porthos leaned forward heavily, one hand set on his stomach as if he were going to be sick. When Adelina looked up, the shadows in her eyes matched those of Porthos.

"How bad was it?" He asked softly.

"After Alejo's…. Torture, Rene was never the same. He was crueler, he sold the Cross the Queen gave him, he became more paranoid, calculating. He stopped calling himself Aramis. I think… I think Alejo killed something inside him. That's when he really convinced himself that he had to be someone new. Aramis is still in that dark basement, screaming," Adelina shuddered.

 _"Any bravery in me died the same day I took a new identity, Athos."_

"My God," D'Artagnan groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. It came away wet. Athos felt Sylvie gently swipe her fingers beneath his eyes, and he was surprised to realize a tear had fallen. They had all been soldiers for years now, had seen war and death and even the aftermath of torture, but the idea of Aramis… Athos suddenly felt nauseous.

"And you haven't seen Alejo in all these years?" She shook her head.

"When we left Elodie, he threw himself into Rochefort's orders. We scrambled for the Capital, but kept quiet, trying not to bring attention to ourselves in case Alejo should ever track our whereabouts. Rene still has nightmares about that place. It would be more merciful to kill him than to let Alejo take him back…" Adelina's voice trailed off as she stared into the distance, her face a mask of conflict. Was she honestly _considering_ it? Athos opened his mouth to reassure her, but Porthos beat him to it.

"He's not takin Aramis _anywhere_!" He yelled, angrily. D'Artagnan nodded at his side, eyes steely. Adelina looked up as if she had forgotten about their presence, and for a moment Athos saw a flash of the girl she might have been. Innocent, full of sweet life and without the sting of murder and torture. He was surprised to find his chest tighten on her behalf.

When exactly had he become so attached to all these people?

"Alejo is a powerful man in Spain. I don't know if we have a choice," she peeped.

"There's always a choice, Adelina," Athos assured her. "And we've made ours. Aramis's agony will be avenged," D'Artagnan and Porthos nodded determinedly.

Constance settled on Adelina's other side, stroking her hair. "You and Aramis aren't alone anymore, 'Lina," she told her. "I can't imagine what it must have been like for the two of you, but we're here now," she promised.

"We're _family_ now," Porthos added. His eyes softened as he looked at her and suddenly he abandoned his post to take her fingers, pressing a kiss to the knuckle. Adelina smiled at him, giggled.

"Y'know," Porthos considered. "I don't think any of us ever thanked you for bringing him home. All these years, when we couldn't be there with him, you've kept him sane and safe. You saved our brother," he stood, squeezed Elodie's shoulder. She blushed. "We can never repay that debt," Adelina slapped Porthos upside the head playfully, laughing when he scrunched his nose at her.

"He's my brother. It's what we do," she reminded him.

"Yeah, but you shouldn't have had to do it alone," D'Artagnan agreed, watching the exchange with fondness. "Whatever happens, we stand with you now. All for one…"

Adelina picked up the call automatically. "And one for all," her expression fell. "The last time… Rene was so broken. I don't know that I can handle seeing him like that again…"

Elodie interrupted her train of thought fiercely. "He'll be alright. We'll make it so!" She declared.

"How?" A new voice wondered despondently, as he appeared in the doorway. Athos, who had seen him first and thought it a hallucination, gave a start. _Why isn't he in bed?_ He wondered, standing. Aramis looked terrible. There was a thin rim of red beneath his eyes, along with dark shadows stalking his lids. His shoulder muscles were tense beneath the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl.

"Aramis! You should be sleeping!" Sylvie scolded as he took an unsteady step into the room.

"Or at least _in bed,"_ Athos agreed. Porthos and Adelina hurried to his side when Aramis stumbled, easing him into the chair D'Artagnan offered. _"_ Sit down, you fool," Aramis collapsed into the chair tiredly, pulling the blanket around himself with one hand.

"Lucero? Alejo?" He asked. His voice was hoarse. Athos pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, checking for fever. The man had been _stabbed_ for goodness sakes. He shouldn't be up and walking around…

"Who?" He asked absentmindedly.

Adelina walked to Aramis's other side, taking his hand in hers. Athos saw her inconspicuously press a finger to his pulse. "Miguel and Alejandro. We all have our masks," she explained. Aramis shivered.

Adelina pressed his head to her side, kissing his forehead. "They're gone, Rene. I checked. This entire Garrison is under lockdown, per orders of the Captain here," she waved at Athos. "We're safe for now." Aramis nodded. Then, he looked to Athos. There was a disturbing calm in his eyes, the resignation of a condemned man.

"I'm sorry for… Well, everything," Aramis seemed to give his next words some thought. "But mostly bleeding on your floor," he added. Athos gave him a dry look.

"I'd rather you bleed on my floor than die there," he informed his friend. Aramis smiled, but it was a shadow of what he usually gave them.

"Treveille?" He wondered.

D'Artagnan hovered over him like a mother hen, raising one arm to check the salve they had smeared unto some of his bruises. Aramis didn't move as he prodded his blanket and shirt aside. Athos exchanged a worried glance with Porthos. Aramis was rarely docile while being examined. "He's gone to see the King, and lodge a formal complaint against Alejandro. Hopefully, we can get him kicked out of Paris," he answered.

Adelina sighed. "It won't be that easy."

"Maybe not, but it doesn't matter. We've got your back," D'Artagnan agreed, gesturing to everyone in the room to include them in his statement. Constance nodded as she set a cup of tea in Aramis's lap. He curled his fingers around its warmth gratefully.

Adelina ran gentle fingers over his scalp, checking for lumps. "Rene… How long were you running? The chateau is a day's ride from here."

Aramis lowered his eyes as if she had chastised him. "I don't know… I collapsed a few times. I managed to tie the bandage around my wound," he shrugged at their surprised looks. "I couldn't die there. I swore to you all I'd come home," he replied, gaze skipping between Athos, Porthos and Adelina. Athos swallowed past the lump in his throat, nodding.

"We are grateful," he breathed. Aramis smiled again, more genuinely this time. Athos returned the gesture, reaching over to squeeze his shoulder. Just as he was about to ask how Aramis felt however, his brother straightened.

"Will you all allow me a moment with my brothers please?" He asked, looking to Constance, Sylvie and Elodie. The three women raised their brows, evidently uncomfortable with being banished, but obeyed with mumbled commands for him to get well. Athos sat on his desk across from Aramis as D'Artagnan quietly closed the door behind his wife. Porthos pulled up the other chair and Adelina stole the one from behind Athos's desk, plopping down beside Aramis.

"I'm staying," she snorted. Aramis reached over and gripped her fingers.

"I didn't doubt it," he assured her, eyes twinkling. He turned back to them, pulling the blanket closer. "There's… There are things I should tell you," he ventured. Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Adelina told us a little. About Alejo and what he did to you. He's not taking you back there, 'Mis," he told him. Aramis shook his head.

"If you knew these men like I do, _mon ami_ , you wouldn't be so sure," he said. Athos felt a shiver wrack his spine. He crossed his arms, exchanging an alarmed look with D'Artagnan.

"We're listening," he said.

Aramis inhaled a shuddering breath. "The name Miguel, like Rene, is a fabricated one. Or, at least, it's not his birthname. His actual name is Lucero. Alejandro is official, but he was always called Alejo," D'Artagnan wandered over, sat on the desk next to Athos. He was grateful for the solidness of his warmth.

"How do you know that?" He asked.

Aramis bowed his head in shame. "Because they're my half-brothers," Athos gave a start, choking on a strangled inhale. _What?_ "We all had different fathers. Alejo is the eldest. Lucero is our youngest brother. We had a sister once, I'm not sure where she is, though I suspect it isn't good. Before…" Aramis waved a hand, indicating his injuries.

 _"All_ this, I hadn't seen Alejo or Lucero since I was a child. My father took me away when I was twelve," he explained. Porthos leaned forward. As Aramis's oldest friend, he knew more about the marksman's past than any of them, but judging from his facial expression, this information was new.

"Away from your mother?" He asked carefully.

Aramis nodded. "He had…. Semi-noble reasons. As a child, Lucero, Alejo and I lived in the brothel where my mother worked," Athos inhaled a sharp breath.

"Your mother was….?"

"My mother," Aramis finished curtly. He looked up, met Athos's apologetic gaze and relaxed partially. "But yes, a Spanish prostitute. Everything she did, she did to protect and feed her children," Athos noticed he was using past tense.

"She's…. Gone?"

"I'm told she was strangled by one of her suitors," Aramis replied, with a matter of factness that disturbed Athos. "I didn't know until I had already joined the regiment. My father, Julien D'Herblay, refused to let me keep in touch with her. He could not conceive a son with my stepmother, and no sons meant his empire of grape vineyards would not be inherited," Athos blinked, surprised. He knew Aramis was no supporter of the machinations that politics and traditions created, whether in the Court or otherwise.

"He was a Noble?" He asked.

Aramis barked a laugh. "He seemed to think so, but no. A merchant, though highly acclaimed. When he learned that a brief tryst with a whore had yielded a son, he came to find me. I refused to leave. Despite everything, I didn't want to abandon my family. My mother… She wanted more for me. She begged me to go, and that night, he and my uncles snuck into the brothel's attic, where the children slept, and took me. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to my brothers."

D'Artagnan's protest was as indignant as if he had been the one taken. "They kidnapped you!"

"The law would never see it as such. My father thought he was saving me, and he wasn't wrong, per se. In the brothel, the children are expected to wash clothes, sweep rooms and clear the chimney. But as we grew older… At the age of thirteen, most children, boys and girls, had to help earn money by taking to the bed. I was spared that fate by my father. Alejo was…" Aramis shook his head sadly. "Never so lucky."

"I imagine he blamed you for that?"

"I don't know. I never saw them again until three years ago. It seems my brothers left the brothel when my mother was killed. Lucero and I had always had more in common than me and Alejo," A brief smile flashed across his face, the pride and affection of an older sibling. Athos recognized it instantly.

"Lucero joined the Spanish army. There, he met Alvaro and they became friends, brothers. Alvaro worked his way to become part of the King's most trusted royal guard, and then Minister. Lucero became part of Alvaro's elite guard. Alejo married into a wealthy, aristocratic family and has apparently worked his way into court. I'd be proud of them if they let me," Athos and D'Artagnan exchanged a dark glance. Even having been betrayed and forsaken by his kin, Aramis was yet loyal.

 _Idiot_.

"What about the pact Miguel… Lucero… Said you had?"

"That's… I don't…" Aramis's fingers twiddled in his lap. "Lucero saved me, when I had been captured by Alejo. I try not to recall much," Adelina reached forward to squeeze his knee. "I just remember… His voice. He and Alejo apparently kept in touch after leaving the brothel. When Alejo's wife, my sister-in-law, died by my hand," Aramis's voice cracked. "Lucero heard and came. At first, he was appalled, _horrified_ by what Alejo had done to me. They… Had an argument."

"Which shouldn't have lasted _four days…"_ Adelina growled _._ Aramis ignored her.

"Eventually, Lucero found some way to get Alejo out of the house. He snuck into the basement and got me to the next town. I wasn't conscious for most of it. Adelina found me there," he smiled up at her gently, but Adelina's eyes flashed.

"He had left you to die!" She snapped.

"He didn't have the knowledge to save me," Aramis defended. Athos saw Porthos roll his eyes from his peripheral vision and smiled dryly. It was like Marsac all over again. Aramis's devotion never ceased to amaze or irritate him.

"It took a few months of tender care from Elodie and Adelina here," Aramis sent her an affectionate look. "But I regained some of my strength. Lucero found us. He spent a few days at my side, helping me hold a pistol again, making me laugh… We had always gotten along as children. It seemed not to have changed as adults," Aramis sighed helplessly.

"I couldn't lie to him. When we discovered that we were both soldiers and assassins, albeit on opposite sides of the war, we made each other a promise. We swore that should we ever find ourselves in battle, we would fight as equals. None of the underhanded tricks of assassins. We would never target loved ones or friends. We had more respect for each other than that," D'Artagnan sighed, rubbing his temples.

"But your mission was to kill Alvaro," he concluded.

"Yes. Lucero told me they served together, but I had no idea that their friendship went so deep. Not until it was too late. Lucero recognized the poison I used to kill Alvaro and knew I had broken our pact. He used to be so kind, but seeing a brother die ruined that in him. _I_ ruined it," Aramis sighed. "He's been hunting me ever since."

"That hunt ends now. If Treveille's appeal to the King doesn't work, we'll try a different tactic, and another and another," Athos piped in.

Aramis sniffled and looked to Adelina. "I might have to leave again," he considered. "Lucero and Alejo won't stop until they've dragged me to the gallows. I'll have to go into hiding, as was the original plan," Athos inhaled sharply. If Aramis left, it would be like losing him all over again.

Porthos crossed his arms, leaning back in his seat casually. "Then we'll come with you," he said, simply. Athos felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was glad _someone_ had the answer.

Aramis sat up as if Porthos had just dumped freezing water over his head. "No!" He cried emphatically. "You _love_ being Musketeers. Soldiering is your lives, everyone you care for is here. France _needs_ you," he turned to Adelina, tugged at her hand pointedly. "You've always dreamed of being a warrior in Paris. I won't be the one to strip that away," he cried. Athos rolled his eyes. Did he honestly think that would deter them from coming? D'Artagnan yawned.

"Better to live together as hopeless farmers in England than to die separated as soldiers of France," he decided, shrugging.

"Farmers?" Porthos guffawed. "You think Athos could be a _farmer_?"

D'Artagnan chortled. "Fine, the two of _us_ can farm and Athos can do our inventory." Athos glared at them both.

"I'd prefer to help cultivate the wine, if it's not too much to ask," he drawled. Porthos and D'Artagnan both snorted with surprised laughter, and he smiled.

"I'll hunt our dinner, since I suspect none of you useless louts can do it," Adelina volunteered.

"All of you are insane," Aramis interrupted their good-natured bickering. "I'm not letting you do this! I'll go into hiding alone," he said. Athos leaned forward to regard him solemnly.

"If it's up to us, you won't go at all. You belong in Paris. We'll keep you here if we can. But if not, then we uphold our oath, and _no,_ " Athos said, cutting Aramis off as he opened his mouth. "We don't care about the danger."

"I won't let you throw your lives away!"

"It's not your choice."

Aramis buried his fingers in his hair, doubling over to lean his elbows on his knees despairingly. Adelina hissed something about him irritating his wounds, but he doubted the marksman heard her. Athos saw his eyes gleam with tears as he threw his head back, groaning.

"Weren't you even _listening_?" He choked out. "I killed my sister-in-law, betrayed both my brothers, murdered innocent people just to see my agenda fulfilled! I have lied, stolen, cheated… I have done _terrible_ things…"

D'Artagnan blinked. "And?"

Aramis stared at them as if each had suddenly grown another pair of eyes. "You're all insane," he marveled, quietly.

"We all know you, Aramis," Athos corrected warmly. "Better than you know yourself. You _have_ done terrible things, none of us dispute it. But it doesn't matter. First and foremost, you're our brother."

"More so than Alejo or Lucero ever will be. How dare they call themselves your family! They don't deserve you," D'Artagnan raged, with a loyalty that rivaled Aramis's. Athos nodded his agreement, looking to his brother to see if he agreed. Judging by the sudden twinkle of tears in his eyes, he did not.

Aramis shook his head as one ran down his face. "I… I don't _understand_ …" He breathed.

"It's simple. We love you more than you hate yourself."

"Which is what I've been telling you all along!" Adelina groaned, rolling her eyes.

"Aramis," Porthos said softly, kneeling before him. He guided Aramis's chin until they locked eyes. "I promised you that I'd never abandon you. That I'd stay by your side no matter the enemy or obstacle. I'm not planning on breakin that promise anytime soon, brother," Aramis shook his head.

"I don't deserve it," he whispered. Porthos snorted.

"Don't care. You could commit every reckless and stupid deed in the world and I wouldn't leave your side. That's just how it works. I know you'd do the same."

"Well, I don't particularly have _a choice_ , now do I?" Aramis cried in exasperation. A long pause. "Are you really doing this? You're honestly willing to give up everything?"

"Of course."

"Why not?"

"Yep."

" _Naturally."_

Aramis stared at them eyes wide with astonishment. His mouth opened and closed silently several times, and then he laughed. Wholeheartedly and without reserve. He almost toppled over from his laughter. If Porthos and Adelina hadn't reached out to grab hold of his shoulders, he would have fallen from his chair. "I have never met such stupid, selfless _idiots_! I love you. God, I love you all!" Porthos grinned but kept a steady grip on Aramis's shoulders.

"Aramis, you'll tear your stitches!" He warned, despite the way his eyes twinkled.

Aramis looked up, his expression twisted into something between agony and joy as he clutched at his sides. "Ah, ah! Then don't make me laugh, please!" He begged, swiping at the hysterical tears running down his cheeks.

D'Artagnan's smile was at once despondent and relieved. "I think this is the first time I've seen you laugh since you got home," he observed.

When the marksman looked up, he was nearly aglow love. "I am home, aren't I?" He asked quietly.

"You are," Athos agreed, rounding to his desk. "And since you now realize it as well, I think it's time you accepted my offer of restoring _this_ to its rightful place," he held out Aramis's Pauldron. Aramis stared at it for a long moment.

"Please, 'Mis?" Porthos begged.

Aramis nodded once, silently.

Athos grinned and walked over to gently set it back unto his left shoulder. When he did, he pressed a chaste kiss to the side of Aramis's temple. "Welcome home, Aramis," he breathed. Aramis could only nod, swallowing convulsively.

"Alright, you need to rest!" Porthos decided, standing. "Those injuries aren't gonna heal themselves. Athos and I will head down to the Palace to check on Treveille's progress. Adelina…?" She gave a determined nod.

"I'll hold down the Garrison," she agreed. Athos was surprised at the ease of which she had become part of their unspoken connection.

Porthos clapped her on the shoulder. "Never doubted. D'Artagnan, since you're technically still wounded…" D'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

"I'll stay here with Aramis," he pretended to grumble.

"Good. Glad we're all on the same page," Porthos grinned roguishly. Athos arched his brows, about to point out that _he_ was the Captain here, but D'Artagnan was already teasing.

"You're bossy," he accused Porthos.

"You're a nuisance," was the quick reply.

Athos rolled his eyes. "Gentlemen!" He cried, throwing his hands up exasperatedly. D'Artagnan smiled at him, reaching forward to set a hand on Aramis's shoulder.

"C'mon, Aramis. Let's go," he said, carefully grabbing Aramis's arm to haul him to his feet. Aramis shook his head fondly; but allowed D'Artagnan to help him back into Porthos's quarters.

"Do you think he'll be alright?" Porthos asked softly. Athos exhaled a slow breath, remembering how much it had torn into his soul to be attacked by Anne, to have her hurt others just to get to him. He well knew what it meant to feel you had failed the one you loved- and to have them hate you for it.

"He has to be," he decided after a moment. "I cannot bear the loss of him again." Porthos hummed low in his throat, agreement. Nevertheless, he shifted in place restlessly, brow was furrowed as he stared after where Aramis had just vanished.

"Porthos?" Athos pressed. His friend shook his head, obviously baffled by something.

"He… He was _so scared,_ Thos," he confided uneasily. "How could anyone do that to him?" Especially a brother. Athos's mind flashed to the hundreds of times he had been angry with Thomas. There had been moments when he could have _throttled_ the boy, but the idea of… Of torturing him?

Would Athos had done that, had he walked in to see his brother actually trying to force himself on the woman he loved? Had Thomas killed Anne that fateful day, would Athos have demanded his head for it?

He shivered, the question hanging uncomfortably over his head. He didn't know what he might have done then, but he knew with utmost certainty what he wanted to do now.

"I don't know, but not to worry… I'm putting a blade in the heart of those animals," he promised darkly. Porthos flashed a feral grin, showing pale teeth in the dim light as he clapped Athos on the shoulder.

"Save some for the rest of us, would you?" He said. Athos felt a thrill of solidarity spark between them, a sensation he had not felt for five years. He grinned.

"Very well; but know that Alejo is _mine,"_ he growled.

Porthos raised his hands pacifically, chuckling. "Alright, alright! You can 'ave 'im _captain,"_ he sobered, eyes suddenly serious and sad. "Athos… I know these past five years I've been… Well, I 'avent been the best friend to you…" he ventured. Athos, surprised, looked up to see Porthos staring at him with sincere eyes.

His heart gave a kick start in his chest. After Aramis's death, he had discarded the hope that Porthos might forgive his transgressions. Only D'Artagnan had kept them together. But in his friend's eyes, he could see their mutual determination and knew they had been reunited in purpose.

 _This was more than I could ever have_ … Athos put a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head. "You were right to blame me," he assured his old friend.

"No," Porthos cried. "No, I wasn't! I had a right to be angry, but not to shove that anger at you. I know how much you've sacrificed for us, how much you care. I'm sorry I ever doubted it."

"I doubted myself. I should have listened to you, old friend, all those years ago,"

 _"To 'ell with it all! My loyalty is to my brother. I'm going to find him and bring him home…"_

Athos pinched his eyes closed, that moment causing a small ache to throb behind his eyes. When he opened them again, it was Porthos who was gripping him hard. "Maybe we could have avoided all this. Maybe none of us would have had to suffer."

"Don't think that way, 'Thos," Porthos scolded. "You know there's no sure answer. Sides, we're together now, huh? And that's how it's going to stay," Athos nodded. "Anyway, I really am sorry brother…"

 _Oh, Porthos. I've missed you._

"You are my salvation, brother. There is not an act you could commit that I would not forgive. It doesn't matter anymore anyway. As you said, we're together. And that," he gave Porthos a resolute look, promising with his eyes what his mouth could not say. "Is all that matters." Porthos's smile was at once joyful and dangerous, and when he extended his hand, Athos took it.

"We'll keep him with us this time, Porthos," he swore softly. Porthos nodded, expression falling to reveal the anxious gravity beneath.

"Or die trying," he murmured, almost like a prediction… Or a prayer. Athos squeezed the hand in his grip, feeling the seriousness of that statement settle in his bones until he was resigned to it, accepting the consequences of his love for these men like he had a million times before. He had never regretted that love and taken every outcome as it arrived. This time would be no different.

"As it should be," he agreed.


	23. Chapter 23

They didn't get more than four steps into the doorway before Aramis was being over protective again. "Let me check your knee," he demanded, breathing heavily through his nose. D'Artagnan helped him ease back into Porthos's bed, noticed the rumpled blankets and spots of red where Aramis's wound had bled. He made a noise of exasperation, crossing his arms.

"Aramis, you were sliced open _and_ stabbed. Worry about yourself for a change," Aramis stared at him silently. D'Artagnan threw his hands up and leaned over to sit beside Aramis on the bed. He swung his leg up, placing it gently in Aramis's lap. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, before Aramis broke it with another painful chuckle.

"I remember when you first charged into the Garrison, demanding that someone battle you like some deranged toddler," he reflected, softly. He looked up, and D'Artagnan felt his face heat up at the pride sparkling in his eyes. "Now look at you," he wheezed. D'Artagnan studied the sheen of sweat on his brow, noted Aramis's glassy eyes.

"You're in part to thank, you know," he replied affectionately.

He was surprised when instead of bragging, Aramis merely shook his head. "Oh, no, you've twice earned this, and all the scratches on it," his elder admitted, tapping at the Pauldron on his shoulder. The old joke was not lost on either of them.

 _"It doesn't look right on you."_

 _"Too shiny, too new."_

"Hey! Mind the _uniform,"_ D'Artagnan growled, slapping Aramis's hands away playfully. They chuckled together, the calm of that time rippling across his mind. It seemed so far away now, and he could hardly recognize the brash boy he had been then, nor the seemingly carefree man masquerading as Aramis.

As Aramis snickered, once more bowing his head so he could prod at his knee, D'Artagnan reached for the handle of his blade. Smiling from the familiarity of it, he untied the striped mahogany and purple ribbon from its base. The ends were frayed, and dirt packed between each fiber, but D'Artagnan still held it as if it were a precious stone.

"Do you remember this?" He asked. Aramis glanced up, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw the small token.

"Isn't that the twine I gave you for your Birthday? Overcoming adversity." D'Artagnan nodded, reverently returning it to its place on his sword handle.

"I couldn't have survived the past five years without it," he told him. Aramis snorted, his fingers sure as he tapped beneath D'Artagnan's knee, making him jump at the ticklish sensation.

"It's a mere trinket," Aramis replied. "I wish I could have gotten you more. Porthos and I had such plans for your Birthday that year…" He sighed wistfully. D'Artagnan felt his lips quirk into a sad imitation of his tone.

"He told me. But I'm serious. I couldn't have survived your death without this reminder of your faith in me," he felt the letter proclaiming that faith and pride crinkle against his chest, and he pressed a hand to it. Aramis noticed the movement, and gave a half shrug, hissing when it pulled at his stitches.

D'Artagnan set a hand on his shoulder. Aramis fell quiet, breathing through the pain. After a moment in which D'Artagnan debating rising to find Adelina or Constance, Aramis nodded to indicate he was alright. He went about his work methodically. "Faith well earned," he rasped.

It took D'Artagnan a second to recall what they had been talking about. He rolled his eyes. " _Aramis…_ " His older brother grinned at him, unabashed by his embarrassment. D'Artagnan shook his head fondly. "I've missed you, brother."

"The feeling is mutual," Aramis patted his knee, gently easing his leg back to the ground. "Alright, you should be fine. Shame on you, pretending to be wounded just to spend more time with me!" he teased, slapping D'Artagnan's back. He rolled his eyes, unable to hold back a grin.

"I just needed an excuse to escape Porthos's bossiness," he replied, gently shoving his uninjured shoulder. Aramis chuckled breathlessly, ducking his head. D'Artagnan pursed his lips, noting the way the marksman's smile dropped into an expression of uncertainty. "Mis?" He whispered. "What is it?"

Aramis did not raise his head. He instead fiddled with the fabric of his pants. "D'Artagnan, promise me something. If… If I am forced to leave again, or if… if Alejo _takes_ me, promise me you'll look after Athos and Porthos. And Adelina," D'Artagnan's hands clenched the bedsheets as the words sent a cold shiver of horror through him.

"Aramis…" He managed to croak.

"Just… Please," Aramis's eyes were suddenly anxious past the glassiness. "I know you all will fight for me, and it means more than you know, but… My brothers won't stop until they feel they've enacted justice."

It was disturbing how quickly alarm turned to fury. D'Artagnan squeezed Aramis's hand between both of his angrily. "Those men are _not_ your brothers! They're sick, grieving animals with no concept of loyalty!" He snapped.

Aramis flinched as if the words had scalded him; but continued stubbornly. "Be that as it may, you must promise me."

"No."

"D'Artagnan…"

He leaned closer to Aramis, gripping the back of his neck so he couldn't look away. A small fire erupted in his soul, sparked by desperation and years of suppressed grief. "Don't you dare make me promise that! What do you think I've been doing these past five years, other than trying to heal the rift your death caused? Do you have any idea how _hard_ it's been?" His voice cracked.

"Your death nearly _destroyed_ us. We didn't even have a body to bury, just three letters and a sash. Porthos was so angry he couldn't bear to look at Athos. Athos was reckless, throwing his life on the line without any consideration. I… I tried so hard to keep us all together. Do you know how that felt? I couldn't even mourn you because I had to be strong for _them_!" He jutted a finger at the door.

Indicating the regiment beyond, their brothers, Athos and Porthos and Constance and everyone Aramis had left behind because of his damned secrets. The lives he had helped build and then promptly abandoned as if they could ever sustain themselves without him. Without their fourth piece.

D'Artagnan's fingers tightened in Aramis's hair. "I tried to take _your_ place, but I couldn't!" He choked out. Something hot and wet trickled down his cheek. Aramis swiped it away, brown eyes pitying in the light. Did he still not understand?

"D'Artagnan, I'm sorry," he breathed.

D'Artagnan shoved him away. "You still don't get it! I don't want you to be sorry. I-I just want you to come home," his next exhale shuddered in his chest and now he was crying even more. Damn _this man._

Aramis pulled him to his chest with one arm. D'Artagnan fell into his embrace, emotion building until it had him fisting the back of Aramis's shirt, silent tears rolling into his shoulder.

"You never… You never came home, and everything changed," he bit out. Aramis's hand carded through his hair.

" _Petite frère_ , I _am_ sorry," he whispered into his ear. "If I had had a choice…" D'Artagnan buried his face in Aramis's shoulder, laughing bitterly.

"You've always had a choice! Let us _help you_. Let us protect you," he raised his head, rubbing his eyes. He suddenly felt drained, his muscles sagging on sore bones. Aramis cupped his cheek, and D'Artagnan closed his eyes, feeling the affection of the touch. "Don't make us lose you again," he begged quietly. "I can't do that again, 'Mis, please… I can't go through that again…" He felt tears build in his eyes again. He blinked them away.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry D'Artagnan. I'm so sorry you had to bear that weight, and so proud you did," well, that made one of them. D'Artagnan's shoulders sagged.

"We wouldn't be able to survive losing one of our own again."

Aramis's eyes sparkled. "I think you're stronger than you think. All of you. Stronger and more merciful than any people I've ever met. Whatever happens, know that I am profoundly grateful, and so honored," D'Artagnan shivered, clutching a handful of Aramis's shirt. He laid his forehead on his shoulder, feeling Aramis play with his nape hairs.

"You still sound like you're saying goodbye. Does Alejo frighten you that much?" He asked.

"Not so much that I'd leave you all willingly. But I know my brother…"

D'Artagnan squeezed his arm to quiet the thought. "Stop calling him that. We're your brothers. He doesn't deserve the title."

"He's my blood, D'Artagnan."

"So? He _tortured_ you."

Aramis's voice was tight with choked emotion. "I murdered his wife."

D'Artagnan bitterly reflected that he and Athos seemed to have done some wife-murdering in their lives. D'Artagnan knew he couldn't lose either of them. "It wouldn't matter what you did to me, Aramis, I might want to kill you, but I'd never make you suffer. I couldn't. I love you too much," Aramis kissed his temple. D'Artagnan raised his head, a bit disconcerted by the sudden emotional outpour. This moment felt… It felt too much like _a goodbye._ It made his stomach clench.

"D'Artagnan, promise me?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, his skin burning cold with a sudden wracking shiver. "Aramis…" He began.

"You're our strength, D'Artagnan. The only one strong enough to do it. I beg you, just make me the promise."

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, exhaled a shuddering breath. He could not refuse Aramis when he was like this, and they both knew it. _Damn_ this man. "I promise," he ground from between clenched teeth. "Happy?"

Aramis smiled, a rough thumb scrubbed D'Artagnan free of leftover tears. "No. I hate to have caused you grief, but I thank you. Will you still name your firstborn Aramis?"

D'Artagnan gave him an incredulous glare _. "Hell no."_

"Then we've all lost something great today," D'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh.

"You're a bastard," he told his friend.

Aramis's dimples made a brief appearance as he shrugged. "I am," he chirped. D'Artagnan rolled his eyes and pointed at the bed.

"Shut up. Now that you've torn my heart out, you should rest. Get some sleep," Aramis glanced nervously at the door, and D'Artagnan placed a hand on the pommel of his sword. "I will stay awake and alert," he soothed. "Let me protect you," Aramis smiled tremulously and nodded, gently setting himself on his back.

"How flattering. I have the regiment's best swordsman watching over me," he mumbled when D'Artagnan threw a blanket over him.

"Don't let Athos hear you say that. He'll get jealous," Aramis snorted doubtfully, squeezing D'Artagnan's hand one more time before closing his eyes. D'Artagnan settled himself on the end of the bed, sword across his knees.

Watching over his brother without fail.


	24. Chapter 24

D'Artagnan jumped when a knock sounded on the door hours later. The door rattled beneath the blow. He tightened his hand on the sword, but a second later Porthos stuck his head in. D'Artagnan relaxed, waving him and Athos inside.

Tantalizingly, the smells of ham and bread wafted up from Serge's kitchen and his stomach growled, recalling that lunch would be served soon. _Aramis is lucky I care about him_ , he grouched inwardly, thinking of Serge's ham stew.

Athos clapped him on the shoulder as he peered down at Aramis's sleeping form. "He's actually _resting_?" He demanded. The bed dipped as Porthos knelt by their brother's side, resting his elbows nearby. He peeled back the blanket, checking on Aramis's wound. D'Artagnan smiled.

"It took a while," he agreed, pitching his voice low so as not to wake Aramis. "But I think he'll be alright now. Treveille?" Porthos shook his head.

Aramis shivered. Porthos dragged the blanket around his shoulders again, standing to join their circle "Yeah, bout that, we have a problem…" he said.

D'Artagnan resisted the urge to face palm. "Oh no."

"He's in prison."

He inhaled a sharp breath. _Why do these things always happen to us?_ "Treveille?! For what?"

Athos folded his arms, shrugging. "We don't know. When we arrived to the Louvre, the Queen met us there. All she knows is that Treveille had a meeting with the King, there was some shouting, and now he's imprisoned in the Chatalet. The Queen left under armed guard to personally excuse him. She says the King hasn't been well lately."

"Do you think Alejo has something to do with this?"

Porthos growled low in his throat, slamming a fist against his palm. "I wouldn't put it past the damned bastard," he replied darkly. "Wish we could jus' challenge him to a duel and 'ave done with it," D'Artagnan looked to Athos hopefully. He had taken up a sword against the Duke of Savoy before, why not the Spanish Emissary?

Athos noticed his gaze and shook his head, smiling wryly. "My dueling days are over, _mes amis._ Besides, it'd be foolhardy. We need a legitimate plan. I hate to admit it, but Aramis might have been right."

D'Artagnan inhaled a resigned breath. "We'll have to leave?"

Athos didn't look too heartbroken at the thought. _I imagine_ , D'Artagnan thought with some trepidation. _He loves the idea of leaving the Captaincy behind._ He could hardly blame the man. Athos had never wanted control, but he and Constance had planned to remain in Paris after marriage.

It didn't matter.

Constance herself would agree when he told her the circumstances. "Potentially," Athos said, breaking D'Artagnan from his thoughts. "It isn't safe for us to leave all at once, though. Porthos and I have an idea. Sylvie can help us smuggle he, Adelina and Aramis out of Paris," he waved a hand in D'Artagnan's direction. "You, Constance and I will remain here to make sure Treveille is alright and stabilize the garrison. We'll meet them in England in a few weeks," D'Artagnan nodded thoughtfully.

"What about Elodie and Sylvie?" He asked.

Athos's face, for a second, crumpled from its mask of emotionlessness. He shifted in place, as if uncomfortable. "They can come if they wish, but… I don't know if Sylvie will want to leave the people here behind. She does too much good work," he confessed, and now D'Artagnan's felt guilty for his earlier thought. Despite the captaincy he knew his brother would love to leave behind, he, too, had once dreamed of starting a new life in Paris.

"I'm sorry, Athos," he told him sincerely. Athos shrugged, his mask slipped back into place. Porthos shook their shoulders supportively.

"Don't despair yet, brothers. We don't know if Madam Sylvie is staying. She might love Athos more…" He suggested teasingly. Athos blushed.

"Porthos!" He snapped, with fondness. Porthos snickered, and D'Artagnan realized that there was something different about them… A lightness that had been reinfused into the looks they threw each other. How closely they stood, their bodies leaning instinctively into the other as if attached by a string.

After five years of arguments and despair and blame, their new solidarity gave D'Artagnan hope. "When are we doing this? The smuggling, I mean," he continued, a spurt of excitement igniting in his veins. If this was part of the new life they would begin in England, then he was more than ready to leave.

"Soon as we find Adelina and Sylvie. Brujon said Adelina finished securing the front gates and seeing to the injured, then vanished. I think she's trying to get more information on Alejo's whereabouts. We don't know if he's at the Louvre either," Porthos answered. Athos scowled.

"I don't like this," he mumbled.

"Makes two of us," Porthos grunted.

"It's our only option. If what Alejo said is true, then the King can't demand we hand Aramis over if he's not in Paris," D'Artagnan pointed out. Porthos glanced between them.

"Does anyone even know English?" He asked.

"Not well, but we'll learn. We can't go to Spain and certainly not Italy. I imagine _someone_ in England knows French."

Porthos grinned roguishly. "I love learnin new things. When does Alejo give the King the treaty?" He asked.

"He's already handed it over, but I predict it will be some time before an agreement is reached. The council is always slow about these things, why not now?" Athos shrugged. "It could be weeks before The King even learns about the small addendum of Aramis's arrest. Enough time for us to get him to safety," he said. Porthos's eyes swiveled to the bed, brows crinkling worriedly.

"He ain't gonna like this," he mumbled.

Athos sounded decidedly unsympathetic. "Yes, well… As he is so fond of saying; _we have no choice,"_ D'Artagnan snickered, nudging his arm.

"Do you have any ideas about who to leave the Garrison too?" He asked. Athos sighed. He pressed his fingers to his temple as if it were already bursting from the amount of paperwork such a transfer of power entailed.

"I'm afraid not. All we have left are a few senior members and cadets…" He contemplated. Porthos scowled.

"Doesn't seem right leavin the Musketeers on such unsteady ground," he murmured, speaking aloud their collective thought. D'Artagnan set his mouth into a thin line. He could not countenance not leaving with Aramis and Porthos, but he had worked so hard to be a Musketeer, given nearly everything for the Pauldron.

The idea of leaving his home and friends without proper leadership made his gut twist. "But it has to be done. Besides, we've never been stronger than under your leadership, 'Thos." Athos smiled humbly.

"Thank you, _mon ami,_ but I'm hoping Treveille can offer ideas. I'm sure he knows of some soldiers who could fit the task, or even Aramis," at the man's name, he shifted in bed, moaning softly.

 _"Hermano, por favor…"_

Athos was at Aramis's side in three steps, murmuring something into his ear. Watching them, D'Artagnan cringed, recalling the promise he had just made. He gave a start when a warm hand landed on his shoulder. "D'Artagnan, you alright?" Porthos asked softly.

"What?" He blurted, shaking himself from his reverie. Porthos was studying D'Artagnan's expression worriedly "Yes, yes… Just, Aramis doesn't seem confident we can save him, or that he even deserves to be saved…" Porthos made a disgusted sound in his throat.

Athos huffed, pressing the back of his hand to Aramis's forehead. He shook his head when Porthos arched his brow, silently asking if he had a fever. Athos stood with a sigh, scrubbing his hands on his pants as if to rub away the remnants of Aramis's pain.

"I doubt seeing Alejo and Miguel gives him any comfort," he reminded them. "Aramis never took kindly to feeling as if he'd wronged anyone, let alone those he calls brothers. We'll focus on his state of mind far from here, in England," he decided.

"It'll be rough, startin a new life… But at least we'll be together."

"Exactly."

They each swiveled as the echo of running feet reached the room. The door rattled a moment later. D'Artagnan turned in unison to the others just as Brujon quietly stepped in. A sheen of sweat covered his brow as he leaned against the door, as if trying to keep it closed with his own body. "Captain, the Red Guard are here," he told Athos, with an eerie calm. Athos rolled his eyes.

"And what do _they_ want?" He demanded.

Brujon's gaze wavered to the man on the bed nervously. D'Artagnan's stomach suddenly clenched. "They said they… They said they've come to arrest Aramis. We're holdin em in the courtyard but… They have a missive from the King, Captain," D'Artagnan inhaled a sharp breath, panic engulfing him like a wave of cold water. His head snapped around to meet Porthos's stunned gaze.

 _They're here._

"Athos…" He whispered.

Athos sprang into action. "Let them into my office, Brujon," Brujon nodded and scurried from the room, hurrying back to the Courtyard. Athos laid a hand on Porthos's shoulder and squeezed. "I'll handle this. Porthos, get Aramis out of here, _now_. Go to Pinon, I'll send the others shortly. I'll stall for as long as possible…" Porthos nodded.

"You got it. Good luck, brother," he replied, clapping Athos on the back as he swiveled on a heel. Athos was halfway out of the door as he tossed the last instruction over his shoulder.

"Take care of each other. D'Artagnan, help Porthos."

D'Artagnan was already kneeling on Aramis's other side. "On it, Athos," he muttered, cognizant that this could be the last time he saw either Porthos or Aramis for a few months. He set hands against Aramis's shoulder blades, shoving him harshly. "Aramis, Aramis, c'mon, wake up!" He yelled.

Porthos glared at him. D'Artagnan matched his gaze. They didn't have time to be kind right now. Aramis came awake with a hiss of pain. "Hmm? Ow! D'Artagnan?" He yelped, sticking him with an injured expression.

Porthos clasped his arm. "It's us, Aramis. C'mon now, you've gotta get up," he urged him.

Aramis blinked at them owlishly, yawning. "Huh? Why?"

"The Red Guard are here to arrest you. Aramis, let's go!" Aramis sat up with a gasp, eyes wide. Promptly, one hand shot to his stab wound as he doubled over. D'Artagnan set a hand on his back, heart hammering.

They had no time for this. "What? What'd I do…?" Aramis breathed after an agonized moment. Porthos whispered something D'Artagnan could not hear, but it made Aramis's head snap up to stare at the door. "Alejo. He's here? Now?"

Porthos and D'Artagnan exchanged a look over his head. "We're not staying long enough to find out. Can you walk?" D'Artagnan asked. Aramis snorted and started to push himself upright.

"I'm an assassin. I've been stabbed before. Where's Adelina?" He asked.

"No clue," D'Artagnan ran to the window as Porthos wrapped an arm around Aramis's waist. D'Artagnan shoved the pane open, peering down. It wasn't too much of a drop. It might re-open some of Aramis's stitches, but better in pain than arrested. "We'll find her later. I've gotta get you out of the Garrison," Porthos huffed.

Aramis shook his head. "But… Athos, D'Artagnan…"

D'Artagnan threw a smile over his shoulder at the dismay in Aramis's voice. "We'll catch up with you in a few weeks, Aramis, I promise."

Aramis dug his heels into the floor. "No! No, I'm not leaving you or Adelina! Miguel will put a bullet in your heads just to spite me!" He cried, horrified.

Porthos growled as he thrust Aramis a few steps forward, propelling him as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. "Damn it, Aramis, we're not arguin with you! Either move or get knocked unconscious!" He bellowed. Aramis opened his mouth, eyes aflame with sudden ferocity, when dull thuds echoed in the corridor outside. D'Artagnan tensed, pushing himself past the two just as Athos's choked voice screamed a warning.

"Porthos!"

D'Artagnan managed to unsheathe his blade just as the door slammed open, revealing five Red Guards standing in the doorway, Marcheaux at the lead. He smiled victoriously, strutting into the room with the elegance of a pigeon.

"We have orders from the King!" He yelled.

D'Artagnan positioned himself in front of Porthos and Aramis calmly. "Orders to do what?" He inquired, mind spinning. He was unsure what kind of stalling tactic that had been, but it would have to do. Marcheaux merely snorted, and then he had a gun pointed at D'Artagnan's forehead.

"I said, I have orders from the King. _Move,_ Musketeer."

"Don't act as if you serve the Monarchy or France, Marcheaux!" Porthos shouted behind him. "What are you doin here?" D'Artagnan could smell Marcheaux's rank breath when he snorted. The Red Guard rifled in his back pocket, producing a long strip of paper. D'Artagnan recognized the King's Seal at the bottom.

"As I kindly informed your captain, the Musketeer Aramis is under arrest by order of the King," Marcheaux repeated. "Now give him over."

"On what charge?" Porthos demanded.

"Are you arguing with the King's word?"

Now D'Artagnan snapped. "Listen, you...!" He began.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis interrupted sharply. A warm body staggered to D'Artagnan's side, his body positioned so that he could smack the pistol barrel away from D'Artagnan's head in a second. "Stop. What are you doing, harassing these poor men, our fellow soldiers?"

Despite the pain his injury must have been causing him, Aramis's voice was light, as unworried as if they were having a conversation amidst old friends. "Don't be foolish, _mes frères._ I have nothing to fear from the law, I'm a priest, remember? Now, why don't we all calm down?" He wondered. Marcheaux gave Aramis a dubious glare, but slowly lowered his pistol.

"Where'd you get that wound then, _priest_?" D'Artagnan bristled at the sarcasm in his voice, but Aramis shrugged good-naturedly as the four other Red Guards came forward, tugging him away from D'Artagnan.

"It's a dashing story, my friend. Remind me to tell you someday," a flinch as shackles were secured about his wrists, a thin chain running to connect to those Marcheaux snapped around his ankles. D'Artagnan watched them, helplessness thrumming in his veins. Aramis kept his tone light. "It had something to do with brandy, as most funny stories do. Do you remember, Porthos?"

Porthos strayed to D'Artagnan's side, a warm presence at his side. "You think its funnier than I do," he replied, and D'Artagnan arched his brows at the joke.

Aramis chuckled softly as the Red Guard shuffled him away. "Always, _mon ami._ I'll see you when this whole mess is done?" he raised his brows at Porthos meaningfully. Porthos nodded.

"Yeah."

Marcheaux gave them another suspicious glare. "Don't think of tryin anything, Musketeers," he growled before he followed the remaining soldiers out of the room. When they were out of earshot, D'Artagnan pivoted on a heel.

"What was that!? We're just letting them take him away!?" He barked.

Porthos gave him a dirty look. "Shut up, D'Art, don't you recognize code when you hear it?" he snapped. Then, angrily, he muttered beneath his breath: "can't believe he still remembers that stupid phrase…"

"Wait, what?"

"Aramis has a lock pick up his sleeve. He is going to use it to get out of his bonds and slip past the Red Guard's. We'll meet at the old tavern." _That sly dog._ D'Artagnan felt a smile tickling his lips but worry kept it bay.

"You're sure that'll work?" He wondered.

Porthos shrugged impatiently. "Nope but it's all we have," their captain appeared in the doorway, rubbing his throat. D'Artagnan could see the faint outline of finger marks. His blood boiled. "Athos, you alright?"

Athos waved away their worry. "Nothing is bruised but my pride. Was that code I heard?" He asked.

"Why does everyone know what that was except me?"

Porthos moved to shut the window quickly. "It was from a time before you, D'Artagnan," he replied absentmindedly. "We've gotta move and meet 'Mis at the…" Suddenly, Porthos's eyes widened, every muscle suddenly snapping into tenseness. "Damn it!" He roared, slamming a fist against the windows so hard the glass shook.

"What? Porthos, what is it?"

Porthos's gaze was stuck on something below them, his face bleached of pallor. "The Red Guard just handed Aramis over to Spanish soldiers, including… _Miguel,"_ he reported, voice tight with suppressed emotion.

D'Artagnan really wanted to hit something. "If he fights or kills one of those guards to escape, it could be taken as an act of war. The King would _have_ to give him to the Spanish," he realized.

"Aramis would never risk war again." Porthos finished the thought, leaning against the window heavily. D'Artagnan started to join him; but seeing the despair in Porthos's eyes decided against it. He shook his head.

"Damn it, no! We have to get to the Louvre." He turned to their third. "Athos, can't you speak with the King?" He asked. Athos's expression morphed into worry, but he did not hesitate to nod.

"I can try. You two stay here…"

Porthos shoved himself from the window. "Hell no!" He growled, pushing past them.

"Never," D'Artagnan agreed, gripping Athos's arm to drag him along behind Porthos. "We're going with you."

Athos, wisely, did not fight D'Artagnan's hold. He merely strode to keep up, one hand on his sword and his face contorted into grim determination. "I thought so too," he mumbled.


	25. Chapter 25

When D'Artagnan usually beheld the King, it was with the same fond exasperation as one would look at an overly dramatic child. With affection, yes, but overall a sense of… Foreboding, as if the child's attitude is a foreshadow of things to come. Grievances too difficult to name, sorrows too thick to speak aloud.

D'Artagnan had always known, deep down, that he did not serve this man. This man was a spoiled, insecure child with little concept how to run a country. Men like Richlieu, Treveille and Athos, women like Constance, Sylvie, the Queen… They truly ran and protected France. King Louis merely sat upon a throne and issued unreasonable commands and greeted guests.

That fact had never made D'Artagnan sick like it did now.

Sprawled over his throne, Louis looked like a bobcat, languid and satisfied after a long hunt. His wig towered upon his head, a mass of black curls half combed. There were bags sitting beneath his eyes, an obvious sign of sleeplessness. He straightened on his golden chair when they entered the throne room, the only other signs of life being that of the four guards standing near the entrance and exit.

"Monsieur Athos, Musketeers, good," Louis cried, as if overjoyed to see them. "I was just about to summon you."

Athos bowed low at the waist, D'Artagnan and Porthos following the movement a second behind. "My liege. You're looking well."

Louis snorted darkly. "Don't lie to your King, Athos. Treveille already tried that today," D'Artagnan felt a shiver wrack his spine at the warning in the King's tone. "He wouldn't show reason. I'm sure you won't make the same mistake," Athos's expression did not change from its usual neutrality, but D'Artagnan saw him tense. At that moment, the doors to their left opened slowly.

D'Artagnan heard Porthos's sharp intake of breath as Spanish guards escorted Aramis into the room, followed by five Red Guards. Aramis, despite the weight of his shackles, strode into the room confidently. He glanced at them grimly. "Ah, Aramis!" The King cried, eyes lighting with recognition. He rubbed his hands together. "Priesthood didn't work out for you, then?" He inquired.

Again, D'Artagnan didn't like that tone. Aramis ignored it, choosing to bow his head respectfully instead.

"I craved the chance to serve you again, Majesty," he replied, humbly. Louis grinned and gestured to the chains around his ankles.

"Well, you've got your wish. You can serve all of France, actually. I don't know or care if it's true, what the Spanish say about you being this Rene fellow, but the Spanish Emissary Alejandro has demanded your arrest in exchange for peace. It sounds like a simple enough deal, don't you think?" _How did he get to the King so quickly?_ D'Artagnan bit his tongue to stop the torrent of curses from flowing out of his mouth. They had underestimated Miguel and Alejo again.

He prayed it would not cost them their brother a second time.

Athos stepped forward. "Majesty…" He began diplomatically.

"Quiet!" Louis snapped. "As I said, I neither know nor care if Aramis is truly an assassin. But peace is better than war. The only reason I was going to summon you is to give you the chance to say your goodbyes," D'Artagnan's breath hitched in his throat. He looked at Aramis, standing calmly to their left. As he watched, Aramis's throat bobbed as he gulped.

Athos's voice was calm but firm. "My King, please! The Spanish are liars and…"

"The Spanish, after Aramis's arrest, will be _our allies._ So you'd do best to watch your tone from now on, Captain," Louis interrupted sternly. Athos's jaw clenched, but he nodded obediently. Louis softened. "Besides," he continued, as if trying to reason with a hysteric child.

"You're wasting time. The Spanish should be here in a moment. This is the time to say goodbye, if you'd like to do so," D'Artagnan resisted the urge to reach out and grab Athos's arm. He could feel Aramis's eyes burning into the side of his head, the promise he had just made like a burn upon his soul.

 _"D'Artagnan, promise me something. If… If I am forced to leave again, or if… if Alejo takes me, promise me you'll look after Athos and Porthos. And Adelina."_

His palms felt warm and wet as he clasped them behind his back, trying to still the insistent tremble. There was a strain of desperation in Athos's voice when he tried a third time to appeal.

"My King, please listen. Would you truly sentence a good French citizen to death for the sake of appeasing King Phillipe? He has never shown Your Majesty your rightful respect and veneration, nor given you cause to trust his word."

"I'm not entirely sure Aramis is the perfect French citizen," Louis drawled, eyes flashing to the silent marksman. Aramis met his gaze without fear or regret, and D'Artagnan cursed his foolishness. The very act of not backing down was an admission of guilt if he had ever seen one.

"In fact, I'm not sure who he is at all. Besides an accused traitor to the Crown and murderer of innocent people," D'Artagnan's attention was so snagged on the conversation at hand, he hadn't noticed Porthos slowly inching toward the Spanish guard. D'Artagnan craned his neck to see Porthos quietly gesture to their friend.

"Aramis, come here," he gritted between clenched teeth. The Spaniards stared at Porthos, the language barrier preventing them from understanding his words, but based on how they tensed, they had comprehended his thinking. D'Artagnan strode to his side, trusting Athos to distract the King.

Aramis shook his head frantically. "Porthos, no! I know what you're thinking!" He hissed, eyes wide. "Don't, _please."_ He made to step away, but before he could retreat into the arms of his incarcerators, there was a knock on the doors across the room from the throne.

Louis narrowed his eyes. "Come!" He called. Then, his gaze shifted to them coldly. "Your time is up. I did give you a chance, remember," he told them as the doors opened, revealing two men dressed in clothes D'Artagnan would never afford. Silky cloth of blue and purple, like the fine philosophers of Rome. D'Artagnan growled. Aramis shied away. "Emissary Alejandro, is this the man you seek?" Their King inquired, waving a hand to indicate Aramis, who looked caught between terror and resignation.

Alejo's eyes swept over them all, not an ounce of emotion or hesitance in his eyes. _He's empty,_ D'Artagnan realized. _Incapable of love or mercy. So unlike his brother._ Alejo nodded and bowed. "It is, Your Majesty. I give you my country's supreme thanks for helping us bring this murderer to justice," D'Artagnan saw Athos's eyes burrow into the other man, every muscle tense and eyes aflame with a thirst for vengeance. Alejo waved a hand. "Bring him forth, men."

D'Artagnan's world split into two scenes. The first was Porthos. His elder moved with the practiced fluency of a dancer, slipping his sword free of its scabbard and quickly stepping before the brigade of armed Spaniards. He reached out, as if in slow motion, and grabbed Aramis's arm, hauling him in place to Porthos's back.

"Porthos, no!" Aramis cried out.

The second was Athos swooping, as gracefully as a bird in flight, away from Louis's throne to take up position at Porthos's side, eyes narrowed, and one arm thrown out to keep Aramis behind the protective wall of their bodies. "Get behind us, Aramis!" Aramis's horrified face was only matched by the complete shock on Louis's, and the satisfied smirks of Alejo and Lucero.

D'Artagnan saw, in that split second, their possible chances of survival. There were none. Either they died in battle defending a brother, they watched Alejo drag Aramis away and withered from shame or they were hanged for their actions.

The world snapped back into focus as he made his decision, sliding into the empty spot as the third, trapping Aramis inside a triangle of blades. He drew his sword and pointed it directly at Marcheaux, who had stepped forward to aid the Spaniards, stopping him mid-step. D'Artagnan's voice was callous and foreign to his own ears.

"Get back! One step closer and _I will put you down_."

Louis's shriek registered somewhere beyond the blood rushing in his ears. "Musketeers, stand down!"

Athos did not move from his spot as he shouted over one shoulder: "Your Majesty, these men are charlatans and butchers! They are responsible for the bombings in Paris, the destruction of Notre Dame and the kidnap of my men. They can't be trusted!" He hollered. Louis didn't listen, but why would that be a surprise?

"Lay down your swords this instant! I command you!"

 _I don't serve you._

Aramis clutched Athos's jacket, shaking him desperately.

"Athos, listen to him, please!" He begged.

 _My loyalty is to my brothers._

"I'll give you one chance," Marchueax sneered. "Stand down." D'Artagnan felt the weight of the Pauldron on his shoulder, the combined force of duty and pain and sacrifice that came from overcoming adversity. That Pauldron represented every dream his father had had for him.

 _I swore an oath._

D'Artagnan grinned, roguishly, as Porthos danced on his heels and Athos flipped the sword in his grasp, loosening his wrists. Aramis continued to protest in the middle, but they paid him no mind. Before D'Artagnan had made that promise to him or Constance or anyone, he had made an oath.

 _All for one._

"I'll give _you_ one chance," he replied. "Walk away." He saw the glint of defiance in Marcheaux's gaze and shrugged. So be it. He waited for the signal, for someone to move and break the stand-off. At length, it was a Spaniard who did it. He found himself impaled on Porthos's sword in a second, and then all hell broke loose.

 _And one for all._

* * *

Porthos knew they would hang for this.

He had spilled foreign blood in the King's throne room. They had disobeyed direct orders from their monarch, and as he fought, Porthos could feel the combined sting of sweat and tears twinkling on his eyelashes. His only wish now- all he _wanted-_ was to not see Aramis fall into the hands of his deranged family. If they were all slain here, so be it. He could handle death if he didn't go alone, but he couldn't lose his friends again.

He slashed an incoming assailant, resisting the urge to pull his pistol. As mad with desperation as he was, he dared not introduce a gun to this fight. There were too many variables that could lead to a shot going wide, striking the King. And no matter how much he had might personally hate Louis, he knew the security of France- and Aramis's son- depended on his continued life.

Somewhere in the past twenty seconds, more guards had flooded into the room, and Porthos knew this fight would not last. Already, he had been dragged away from Aramis, surrounded by Spaniards and Red Guards. A hard kick to the gut made him stumble backwards, where a hand gripped his shoulder and spun him around. Porthos gasped as a punch made him reel on the spot.

Aramis cried out, somewhere beyond the mass attacking him. He heard D'Artagnan too, shoving his way through the crowd to haul Porthos up with one hand while he fought off swordsmen with the other.

Porthos somehow landed on his knees, and between legs noticed that Athos was the only one standing before Aramis. He pulled his sword from a man's gut before he was shoved from behind by Aramis, who had saved him from a fatal slash of the blade. Porthos inhaled sharply when he saw that same man grab Aramis by the hair, dragging him away from the melee.

 _Miguel._

He roared and surged to his feet, D'Artagnan a half second behind. However, several pairs of stubborn and unyielding hands gripped him from behind. His shoulders, his neck, his ears, his hair. Porthos growled as he was yanked backwards, more hands coming to encircle his waist and shoulders, holding him in place with the inhuman strength of many.

 _Now the Red Guards decide to work together._

Porthos fought against the hold, gasping. "Athos!" He bellowed at their disheveled leader. D'Artagnan went down to his right, tackled to his stomach. Men sat atop him, locking his arms behind his back in a cruel stranglehold. "Athos, do something!" Athos's eyes swiveled from him to D'Artagnan to Aramis, evidently torn about who to help and how.

Porthos wriggled in the grasp of his attackers as someone tried to wrestle his sword from his grip. Porthos didn't care. Let them beat him into submission, but Aramis was in Miguel's grasp. If they died now, he would be taken away to some distant hovel to be tortured. If Aramis's guilt didn't kill him first.

"Athos, help him!" Porthos wasn't sure what he wanted Athos to do. Aramis was basically clear across the room by now, gaze set on Porthos and D'Artagnan with palpable fear. He had stopped shouting for them to stop, but only because now he was pleading for their lives. The idiot had been captured and was close to death and he wanted them to live?

 _Bloody idiot._

Athos closed his eyes for a long moment, exhaling a shuddering breath. Then, shocking them all, he dove to his knees before their King, taking a fistful of his robe into his hands as he bowed his head over the King's knees. Louis screeched, as if Athos had attacked him. "Majesty," Athos gasped, voice thick with emotion even from where Porthos stood. "I entreat you as your servant, a soldier, a man and a brother, _please_. Please don't let them take him." Louis stared at Athos as if he were some diseased squirrel.

He patted the swordsman's head awkwardly. "Athos, this will save France from war," he replied, in that whining tone of his. "Don't you want that?"

Athos shook his head, and Porthos realized he was sobbing. "I'm _begging_ you…"

Louis slapped Athos away as if he were some bothersome fly, and Red Guards appeared over his shoulder, hauling Athos away from the King. One of the guards swatted him across the back of the head with his staff, and Athos collapsed dizzily. Porthos growled, but a rough punch to his stomach silenced him. He doubled over, choking.

Louis surged to his feet like a displeased toddler, ready to stomp his foot. "Enough!" He shouted. He pointed an accusing finger at Athos. "Call your men off or I will have all of you court martialed. I understand grief, but you exist only to see my will done!"

Athos turned onto his back to face their King. "We'd rather hang," he murmured past the blood trickling out of his mouth. The Red Guards pounced on him then, merciless. Athos was dragged upright, a dark bruise already forming over his eyes.

D'Artagnan's bark of outrage was at once painful and bitter. _What do you know about grief, about loss, about loyalty?_ Porthos wanted to shout. He turned his head, looking for Aramis. The other man was watching the fight unfold, chest heaving, eyes wide with terror for them. When he caught Pothos's gaze, he shook his head hastily.

 _Stop,_ he mouthed. _Let me go._

Porthos barked a laugh. "You don't get to release me!" He yelled to their friend, voice echoing in the room. "And you don't get to be released!" Suddenly, Porthos ripped his arm free of the hands holding it. He slammed an elbow into the face of the man behind him, throwing his sword to Athos.

"Let's go!" He hollered as the swordsman caught the blade, instantly using it to jab the fingers of those holding him. They screamed, spurts of blood raining from their severed fingers. Suddenly, a shot rang out, making Porthos jerk from its loudness. Everyone froze, looking around for the source of the shot.

It was Miguel, standing over D'Artagnan. A few crumbles of the shattered ceiling rained down from where the bullet had struck, but as Porthos watched in horror, the assassin slowly leveled the pistol at D'Artagnan's prone body.

The Red Guards holding their youngest down flinched but did not abandon their posts. Miguel's eyes were cold and hard as he flipped out a second pistol, pointing it also at D'Artagnan. "Need I say more?" He inquired evenly.

Louis was near hysterical as he waved his hands. "I will not have a massacre in my Throne Room!" He screamed. Miguel didn't blink.

"Then get your Musketeers under control!" He replied. He cocked the safety loose. "Or I will," he growled. Porthos's heart skipped a beat.

Then there was a third person there. Aramis had- somehow- gotten free of his chains. He threw himself to his knees before D'Artagnan, shielding the boy with his own body, arms spread as if to catch bullets in every limb. "STOP!" He shouted urgently. "I surrender! I will go willingly!" He gasped.

"No!" D'Artagnan cried, wriggling.

Aramis ignored him, instead swiveling his gaze to the King. He held out his hands beseechingly. "My king, please forgive my friends, they were only trying to do what was in the best interest of myself and France, but I see the right path now. If it pleases Your Majesty, spare them. I will not make any more trouble for France, just please… Let them live." Porthos staggered forward, but a heavy blow on his back forced him to his knees.

"No! NO!"

Louis was trembling on his throne. "Well, how can I when they've obviously gone mad!?" He screeched. Aramis shook his head.

"They'll stand down after I'm gone. They'll be good. I swear. I swear they won't ever let you down again." _No. Aramis, don't do this!_

The King relaxed partially, glancing between the warring parties thoughtfully. "You'll cause no trouble?" He asked hesitantly. Aramis nodded emphatically.

"None at all. I swear it on my honor."

Louis nodded, relieved. "Very well. Do as they say," he waved a hand at Miguel. "And I will have mercy on your friends." Aramis's shoulders sagged for a moment. He reached down to lightly clasp D'Artagnan's shoulder before staggering to his feet.

D'Artagnan's voice cracked. "Aramis, don't do this! Please!"

Aramis stared down at him sadly for a moment, then returned his gaze to Porthos and Athos. Porthos's breath hitched in his chest at the complete terror in his eyes. Aramis was _scared out of his mind._

But doing it anyway.

Porthos choked on a sob. Aramis smiled. "It's alright. You'll be with me," Aramis pressed a fist to his chest, bowing his head in a sign of deep respect. "So it won't hurt. Tell my sister it won't hurt." He didn't glance up when Miguel appeared behind him.

D'Artagnan growled deep in his throat, struggling like a fish beneath those holding him. Porthos held back a snarl of rage when the other man's arm snapped back, when he struck his brother from behind, Aramis collapsed, limp, on the ground.

Athos looked away, agony flashing in his eyes and Porthos felt his heart scream. _Why?_ He wondered as tears ran from his eyes. _Why him? Haven't we suffered enough? Hasn't he suffered enough?_ D'Artagnan tried a last plea. "Majesty, please… They'll _torture_ him. Please," he cried.

Louis stood from his throne shakily, hands gripping his armrests as if he had been the one to fight for his brother's life. His eyes were absent, unsympathetic as he swiped at his shirt sleeve. "Don't be dramatic, D'Artagnan," he snapped irritably. "Your behavior today has disgraced The Musketeers enough."

By this time, the Spanish guards had already bundled Aramis's gangly limbs back into chains, slinging him over Miguel's shoulder like a sack of grain. Miguel's eyes roamed over them for a long moment, and Porthos could have sworn he saw a flash of doubt in his eyes. Had their loyalty inspired something in him?

The younger man jerked his head to the door.

"Let's go." Porthos remembered that this man had saved Aramis from torture and death once before. Maybe he could be reasoned with. It was the only hope Porthos had to save his friend.

"Lucero," He hollered across the room as he was manhandled into a standing position. D'Artagnan and Athos suffered the same treatment a few feet away. At hearing his birth name, the Spanish assassin halted mid-step. Porthos saw one fist clench at his side and plowed forward in his plea. "He's your brother! You can still _save_ him!"

Alejo joined his brother, one arm round his shoulder as if to protect him from Porthos's words. He narrowed his eyes at the Musketeers, hatred glinting in the depths. "He's a murderer, and I will find my justice. Shall we?" He asked his brother coldly. Miguel nodded and moved forward.

Just as Alejo was reaching for the doors, suddenly they swung open of their own accord. Porthos's head snapped up, a rare hope jumping to life in his chest. If that was the Queen or Treveille, then they still had a chance of escaping this entire ordeal together. Maybe not alive or with their honor intact, but at least together… He gasped when he saw the stricken eyes of the woman standing on the other side.

"Oh, what now!?" Louis cried. "Who are you?"

"Adelina," Athos breathed. Aramis's apprentice took in the room's occupants shrewdly, eyes locking for a second with Porthos's before swiveling to regard Alejo coolly.

"You have the wrong person," she told them, with utmost calm. "The Musketeer Aramis is not Rene _, el francotirador_. I am." Porthos inhaled sharply, understanding washing over him. He felt a pang in his chest, even as the hope inside him flared. Aramis would _never_ be able to live with himself if this worked…

"Who are you? And how did you get in here?" Louis demanded, aghast.

"Friend of yours, Musketeers?" Marcheaux hissed, giving D'Artagnan a rough shake.

"They don't know me," Adelina answered for them, barely sparing a glance at the King or Red Guards. "My name is Adelina, and I am the one who murdered the Spanish Minister Alvaro. I murdered senorita Justina," her eyes burned into Alejo, silently daring him to contradict her.

He only gawked. Evidently, he hadn't planned for this to happen. "Your wife. I am the one you seek. Not him. Take me, if you must."

Their King sank back into his throne as if his legs had been taken from beneath him. He waved at Marcheaux tiredly. "Oh, for goodness sakes! Arrest her, man!" He commanded, before addressing Alejo's back. "Emissary, I wholeheartedly apologize for these interruptions. Clearly this girl is mad. I shall have her…"

But Alejo was staring at Adelina with a new light in his eyes. He swiveled on a heel and bowed deeply. "No, no, my liege. It is I who must apologize. This girl isn't mad. We always did believe the assassin who killed our beloved Minister was a woman," he explained. Miguel gave a start next to him, and Porthos swallowed a gasp of astonishment.

 _What?_

Alejo continued with a voice oily with manipulation. "Their wicked sex was responsible for our banishment from Eden, why not this?" He continued.

Louis squinted at the petite woman dubiously. "Are- Are you quite sure? She's just a girl! She doesn't even look strong enough to hold a pistol much less use it to kill people. How do you know?" He asked. Alejo waved away the question breezily.

"Women are manipulative creatures, dear King. You know this," Louis's eyes hardened, and Porthos could see the reminder of his mother in his eyes. He nodded. "I do believe she is the one. Take her!" He ordered, jabbing a finger at Adelina crudely. His guards seemed stunned by the command, but they moved forward obediently, yanking Adelina's arms behind her back and securing them with rope.

She allowed herself to be restrained with uncharacteristic obedience. Porthos watched, grateful beyond measure, but sorrowed beyond words. Aramis would never forgive himself for this, and Adelina was a good person, a great woman. She didn't deserve to die any more than his best friend had. "W-what about Aramis?" Miguel demanded, stuttering in his shock. Alejo rolled his eyes.

"We no longer need The Musketeer," he replied, giving his brother a keen look. He jerked his head to Adelina. "We have what we came for," he said slowly, holding Miguel's eyes until he clenched his jaw with a nod, slowly lowering Aramis to the floor. Porthos could hardly believe their luck.

"So, all of this foolishness was for naught!?" Louis squawked, waving a hand to indicate them. Alejo's eyes swept over them, causing a chill to run down Porthos's spine when their eyes met. Alejo smiled victoriously.

"On the contrary, your Majesty. Your Musketeers have proven just how loyal they are to their own. They are worthy of you, and France, and each other," Alejo turned to face them and executed a dashing bow that somehow conveyed more disrespect than Porthos could have believed. "I hope you gentlemen live long enough to reap the benefits of what you've sown," he continued.

Porthos looked past Alejo toward Adelina, who was standing in the midst of Spanish soldiers quietly, chin held proudly. When she noticed Porthos staring, she gave a jaunty little half shrug and a tremulous smile.

His heart snapped. "Please tell your friend," she choked, voice cracking. "That I am sorry for any harm my actions may have caused him." Before Porthos could reply- could beg for her life in Aramis's stead- she was yanked away and marched out of the door, the Spanish envoy swiftly piling into the hallway behind her.

For a long moment after their departure, the throne room was silent, the air itself holding its breath. Then, it was broken by a grunt of pain from one of the men holding Athos. "Ow!" he cried, reeling backward and clutching at his nose, which had just met Athos's elbow in an unfriendly square off.

"Get your hands off me, Red Guard," Athos drawled.

"Why, I oughta….!"

"No!" Louis shouted. They all halted. "No more violence in this chamber. I tell you, this always happens whenever the Spaniards come around. Complete chaos. I don't even know what to say. I really don't," he mumbled to himself, massaging his temple. Their King regarded the three of them sourly before waving a dismissive hand. "Release them, Marcheaux. My head hurts too much to contemplate these past ten minutes right now," Porthos was heaving himself from his captor's clutches before the King had finished his command, eyes set on Aramis's unmoving body on the floor.

The bruises on his arms and torso sent tingles of agony shooting all around his body, but Porthos ignored the minor pains, sprinting over to his friend. He knelt beside him as D'Artagnan and Athos appeared over his shoulder. "Aramis?"

"You Musketeers are lucky the Spanish took no offense at your inappropriate…. _Outburst,"_ King Louis harrumphed. "I'd be a lot angrier right now. As it is, I think I need a long nap. And mayhap a few drinks. Marcheaux, return to whatever duties you have here. I'm retiring. We'll discuss your blatant disrespect later, Captain," he sniffed. Porthos was barely paying attention. He lifted Aramis's torso into his lap, cradling his neck in the crook of his elbow and pressing trembling fingers to Aramis's neck.

"Porthos?" D'Artagnan asked softly as he held his breath.

There. Porthos slumped in blatant relief and gratitude, a sob bursting free of his chest. "He's alive," he breathed. He heard Athos heave a sigh above him and D'Artagnan bark a mildly hysterical laugh. "Thank God, he's alive." And they had escaped a lifetime where they did not have him.

He swiped away a few tears leaking from his eyes, looking up. Athos had set a hand on his shoulder, his own pupils shining with identical joy. His blue eyes struck a chord in Porthos's heart, and suddenly his heart dropped when he remembered what had happened. His gaze swiveled back down to their unconscious brother, who would wake in a world without his sister. Without Adelina.

"Oh, Aramis…"


	26. Chapter 26

His mind, perhaps in a last effort to shield him from reality, replayed memories he had long buried.

 _"He still looks unhappy," D'Artagnan pointed out as he shifted feet nervously._

 _Aramis blinked a few times, pulled from his contemplation of the Garrison. He twisted around to see what D'Artagnan meant; and squinted suspiciously at where Athos leaned against the same post where D'Artagnan's main gauche had been buried yesterday. A well-aimed throw, especially for someone of his age and inexperience, but maybe a bit imprudent since it had nearly gone into Aramis's neck and Athos's back._

 _He rolled his eyes and turned back to their young friend. "Don't mind Athos," he assured D'Artagnan. "He always looks that way in the morning."_

 _D'Artagnan, if possible, looked even more terrified. "It's the afternoon."_

 _Aramis's brow crumpled in confusion, but a quick glance at the sunset revealed that D'Artagnan was indeed right. Damn. He had probably missed a meeting with Adele. He shrugged, both at D'Artagnan's comment and his own realization._

 _"Right. Well, he always looks that way. You'll get used to it. Anyway, come forth, come forth! Porthos, is this everyone?" He called to his best friend, standing a few feet ahead of them and waving his hands to beckon the straggler Musketeers into the courtyard. Already forty men and a few boys stood assembled before him, casting semi-amused glances at the three men. Quite a few glared at D'Artagnan, no doubt recognizing him as the brash fool who had attacked Athos only yesterday._

 _"Aramis, are you sure this is a good idea?" D'Artagnan whispered, worriedly. Aramis flung a companionable arm around his shoulders, pressing him against his side comfortingly. He understood what it meant not to feel as if one belonged or was welcome, and he loathed the idea of this fiery Gascon entertaining such a notion. He quite liked this one, and besides, he had helped save Athos from the firing squad. A fact that he and Porthos had reminded Athos of when he had protested the boy's presence at the Garrison._

 _"Of course! Why wouldn't it be?" Aramis inquired cheerily._

 _"Oi! Where the 'ell is Jean-Paul and Eustace?" Porthos bellowed over the murmurs of the crowd. A few men called out answers in the form of deprecating jokes and inappropriate pig noises. "Some help you louts are!" Porthos laughed when none of the calls proved effective. "Athos, were they sent out this morning?"_

 _Athos's frosty glare made Aramis grin, but he felt D'Artagnan burrow a bit closer into his side. "No."_

 _"Then where are they?" Porthos demanded, unimpressed. Athos's glare only intensified in its iciness._

 _"I don't know."_

"Aramis. C'mon. Wake up now."

 _Porthos threw his hands up in mock defeat as the other Musketeers snickered. "What kind of lieutenant are you?" Aramis grunted agreement. Porthos turned his back on the other man, facing the crowd with hands on his hips. "Does no one know where Eustace and Jean-Paul went?"_

 _"Look," D'Artagnan tried to negotiate to Aramis, mumbling so only they could hear. "We don't even have everyone here right now. Why are we doing this again?"_

 _"Because dinner is the only time all the Musketeers are in one place for more than twenty seconds," Aramis replied, ever patient. "Look at all these men, D'Artagnan," he gestured to the small crowd. "If you're to become a Musketeer, each of them will be your teacher and champion and bitterest enemy. Each will be your brother. You must know and trust them all, and vice versa. This is for the best, believe me."_

 _"But we're making a show out of it," the lad hissed uncomfortably. He inhaled deeply. "And Athos is still glaring." Honestly, whatever fear this one had of Athos was unwarranted. The other man had a wicked glare, and probably would run the boy into the ground during training, but Athos was probably the least dangerous of the three of them._ The real one to fear, _Aramis reflected,_ is Porthos in a temper.

 _"Athos is only angry because he knows my skills of persuasion are superior to his!" Aramis yelled over his shoulder. Athos huffed doubtfully. D'Artagnan groaned. "Don't worry about Athos. The Captain approved of your presence, and that's all that matters… Ah, there you two are!" Aramis cried as two men came strutting into the Garrison, joining the mob with curious joviality. "Where've you been?" Aramis demanded._

 _Jean-Paul, the younger of the two, waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You should know, Aramis! She's a mutual friend of ours!" He replied, much to the collective amusement of all gathered. Aramis pretended to gasp in mock offense._

"Aramis… Open your eyes. Don't let go now."

 _"Oi! Porthos, clock that man! Did you hear him insult me?" He demanded._

 _"Insults are stuff that ain't true, Aramis. Everyone knows that," Porthos teased. The crowd burst into uproarious laughter that took a good five minutes to dispel. When it had, Porthos shouted for silence and waved a hand in D'Artagnan's direction._

 _"Alright, mates! Listen up, this here is our newest recruit D'Artagnan!" He snagged D'Artagnan's arm and dragged him in front of the crowd. "D'Artagnan, tell 'em about yourself." D'Artagnan paled as Porthos clapped him on the shoulder and took a step back, safely ensconcing himself with Aramis and Athos._

 _Aramis had to admit that D'Artagnan managed to compose himself quickly. He tipped his head to the men assembled, his expression schooled into the perfect imitation of humble fearlessness. "Well, then," he stammered. "I'm D'Artagnan. I'm from Gascony…"_

 _"Hey!" Someone interrupted. "Didn't you nearly get Athos killed yesterday?"_

 _D'Artagnan flinched. Porthos hissed beneath his breath and leaned down toward Aramis. "That's not goin away anytime soon," he murmured. Aramis nodded. That was exactly why he had suggested this in the first time. Not only was it hilarious to watch D'Artagnan squirm, but the other men needed to know that he was trustworthy._

 _"It was a misunderstanding?" D'Artagnan offered, the statement sounding oddly like a question._

 _One of the older men standing upfront harrumphed. "A misunderstanding!?" He echoed. "Athos was almost shot, he was!" Aramis looked away, pretending not to take any interest in the lad's distress._

 _"Are you two going to do anything?" Athos drawled, a bit of bite in his voice._

"Aramis, you promised us…"

 _"A little confrontation is good for 'im," Porthos supposed, yawning. Aramis nodded sagely._

 _"By Red Guards!" Another of the men pointed out, with utmost distaste. "Are you with the Red Guards?" D'Artagnan shook his head vigorously._

 _"No!" He began, but the mutterings of dissent had already begun to grow into roars, angry stares thrown at him like daggers. "Wait! Wait, listen to me please!" he pleaded. Athos rolled his eyes._

 _"You two are useless," and then he was moving forward, putting a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder. D'Artagnan turned and gave a start when Athos stepped beside him instead. Porthos nudged Aramis's ribs, and Aramis nodded, chuckling._

 _"It wasn't D'Artagnan's fault," Athos told the crowd, long-sufferingly, his voice quiet but somehow managing to cut through the calls. Aramis had once wondered how he did that. Only Treveille commanded the same kind of respect._

 _Then he had gotten to know Athos, and now he understood and shared the sentiment._

"Why isn't he….? Aramis, 'cmon!"

 _"He acted with honor and courage. He is not to be blamed for any confusion between us, it was Richlieu's dirty hand mussing things as usual," Athos explained, calmly. "He is a skilled and decent cadet and I expect all of you to treat him accordingly. He'll be here awhile," and now they were nodding, sparing D'Artagnan a few glances of surprise. D'Artagnan remained completely still beneath Athos's hands, obviously astonished._

 _"Huh," Porthos observed. "Never said nothin that nice about us, did he?"_

 _"Not in my memory, no."_

 _"Alright then, lad!" One of the dissenters yelled, mollified. He reached out and tousled D'Artagnan's hair, smiling. "C'mon then! Have dinner with us!" And then D'Artagnan was being manhandled from all sides by jovial men yanking him from the courtyard toward the mess hall. He craned his neck in the madness, and when he caught Aramis's eye, he waved gratefully._

 _They waited until the lad had been carted off by their brothers before approaching Athos. "You two planned this," It wasn't a question. Aramis hitched his thumbs into his weapon's belt and snickered._

 _"You know how much we love to play tricks," he reminded their leader._

 _"Knew you liked the boy," Porthos added, grinning._

"Aramis, we need you…"

 _"I was merely trying to save him from being killed by a mob of dramatic fools," Athos replied dryly. Porthos lightly cuffed him on the arm, his smile dropping._

 _"Hey, don't you pull that on us now," he warned. "We know you too well."_

 _"That boy," Aramis pointed to the kitchen, where their youngest had been dragged. "Looks up to you, Athos. It only took a day and he was willing to face his own demons to find justice, for you **and** his father. Having someone like that will be good for everyone, but especially you."_

 _"So, we intend to see it done, don't we 'Mis?" Porthos asked. Aramis wrapped an arm around Athos's shoulder, guiding him to the mess hall, with Porthos following them cheerily._

 _"That we do, mon ami. That we do."_

"ARAMIS!" The last yell was what finally plunged him from the sweet dark of his psyche into the fire of his present. Aramis gasped, his body instinctively surging upward at the summons. The second he had done so, agony ricocheted through his skull and sides.

Aramis fell back, a silent scream caught in his dry throat. He quickly slammed his palms to his eyes, trying to ease the pain behind his temples. Somewhere beyond, someone called his name quietly. Aramis couldn't answer, but he did feel other hands, calloused and gentle, cup his skull and rub the nape of his neck.

Some of the pressure eased in his head. Aramis gulped the bile slithering up his throat and let his eyes flutter open. His vision was blurry, but he made out Porthos and D'Artagnan immediately. Pain and terror instantly sizzled in his gut.

Had Alejo gone back on his word? Were they all headed to Spain, and the terrible bloodshed promised to be in wait there? _Or,_ his mind whispered devilishly. _Has the King rightfully decided you cause too much trouble? Have you finally dragged your friends into the grave with you?_

His breath hitched in his throat at that. "What…?" He whispered, throat scratchy. Someone pressed a cup to his mouth and he gulped cool, blessed water. As soon as he felt the liquid cascade down his throat, his vision cleared.

"You with us?" Porthos asked, him and D'Artagnan leaning so close that their faces covered his entire eyeline. Where was Athos?

"Er…. Where…" Aramis gulped. "Where are we?" He asked.

"We're at the Garrison," D'Artagnan assured him. A warm palm settled on his bare arm, and Aramis realized his shirt had been stripped away and his bandages reapplied. "You're safe, Aramis."

"Alejo…"

"Is gone from Paris," Porthos finished curtly. His deep brown eyes were filled with concern as he dipped the cup to Aramis's mouth again. It was his hand massaging Aramis's neck then, relieving the pressure in his head. Aramis's breath left him in a whoosh of surprise and relief.

He slumped into the soft cushions beneath him, reaching up to squeeze D'Artagnan's hand on his arm. "I don't know how you did it," he breathed, eyes swiveling from D'Artagnan to Porthos tiredly. His voice cracked. "But thank you."

"We made you a promise, remember?" D'Artagnan replied, smiling. Aramis returned the gesture, sinking into the bed and allowing his eyes to close for another moment. Finally, he was safe. He was free.

The relief was a living thing singing in his heart. "Better send for Athos," Porthos said from above him.

Aramis's eyes popped open as something occurred to him. "The King… Is he displeased? You three certainly caused a stir in his throne room. Athos isn't being punished, is he?" That was the only reason he could think of why Athos would not be at his side when he woke. D'Artagnan stood, and now Aramis could see that he was back in Porthos's room, lying in his bed.

Outside, stars twinkled in the night sky. How long had he been unconscious?

Porthos exchanged a worried glance with D'Artagnan, and Aramis's anxiety spiked. "What? What is it?" He began to sit up, but Porthos laid a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down. He heard the door open and a gust of wind replaced D'Artagnan at his side.

They were alone now. "Porthos… Tell me," Aramis pleaded, gasping as more waves of pain crashed over him.

"Athos is fine," Porthos promised when he was flat on his back. Porthos preoccupied himself tucking the blanket around Aramis's legs and upper body. "He's… Well, I'll let him explain it to ya when he returns. He's fine. We're all fine, Aramis, I swear."

"Then why do you look so worried?" Aramis demanded. Porthos scoffed.

"I was terrified for _you_ , idiot. You never took head wounds well, and you're still injured from the first family reunion you had," oh, yes. Aramis had forgotten about it, to be honest. "Besides, we almost lost you. Again. How dare you trade yourself like that?" Aramis sighed.

"One for all," he reminded his friend.

Porthos rolled his eyes and settled back into a chair, one hand still pressed to his thigh. Aramis was grateful for the connection. He felt weak, vulnerable. "Don't pull that on me. Do you have any idea how it felt to watch those bastards… Damn it, Aramis! And don't think D'Artagnan didn't tell us about that little promise you pulled from 'im!" He yelled. Aramis examined the bags beneath his friend's eyes, noted the shadows behind his gaze.

"Better safe than sorry," he replied. Porthos shook his head, bowing his head as if praying. Maybe he was. Aramis tended to have that effect on people. Nevertheless, he had forgotten- or perhaps just ignored- the toll that he knew this entire situation must have taken on Porthos, who had never had family after his mother's death until he met the three of them.

"Porthos," Aramis called softly. His friend looked up, an expression of infinite weariness painted on his face. Aramis prepared to apologize; but… That wasn't right. His mouth quirked into a small, sad smile. "I love you."

Porthos's bottom lip quivered, but he did not cry. He merely squeezed Aramis's leg. "Yeah," he breathed. "I know."

The door creaked open, and a moment later Athos was at his side, his own expression a mask of weariness and relief. "Aramis!" he cried, plopping unto the bed beside him. He took one of his hands into his own and D'Artagnan appeared over his shoulder.

"Captain," Aramis said. "You haven't shaken me off yet, as you can see," Athos rolled his eyes, but his mouth was quirked into a rare grin.

"Thank God," he agreed. "How do you feel?"

"I'd feel better if someone would tell me what Porthos is too afraid to say," he answered. Athos's brow scrunched, and he huffed a breath. Aramis had never seen his friend so at a loss for words. Despite his quietness, Athos was naturally brilliant with language, as poetic as Aramis sometimes. "What is it, 'Thos?"

Athos looked away. "Aramis, we'll get her back," he began. "As soon as Treveille gets here, we'll make a plan. We'll get her back," Aramis scowled.

"What the hell are you…?" Then, his stomach dropped as the gnawing uncertainty in his heart found its cause. He hadn't woken from an injury without Adelina by his side or in nearly four years. If she wasn't here… "Where?!" He snapped, fear rocketing. "Where is she? Is she hurt?" All three of them avoided his gaze. Aramis tugged at Athos's arm pleadingly. "Athos!"

"She gave herself up," D'Artagnan blurted, as if the words pained him. "Aramis… Alejo was about to take you and we had been defeated. She barged into the room and… And told everyone she was Rene, and Alejo… She's on her way to Madrid now. I'm sorry," he said.

Aramis could hear the blood rushing in his ears, his heart thundered in his chest as his fingers scrabbled at the bed sheets, images of Adelina being tied and hauled across the world and Alejo with _his filthy hands_ on her…

He snatched the blankets from his legs, shoving himself unto one elbow. He ignored the pain and nausea, eyes skimming the floor for his shirt and pistols. "I have to go." Porthos reached over, panicked.

"Aramis…" He began, but Aramis swiped his hands away irritably.

"No! I'm going now!" He shouted.

"But..."

"How could you let them take her?! Didn't you know I would rather have died than live knowing she took my punishment? _How could you_?!" He screamed, voice cracking.

"What could we do?" D'Artagnan asked, desperately. "It was her or you, Aramis!"

"Then you should have saved her!" Aramis yelled, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Porthos stood, laying a hand on his shoulder. Aramis smacked him away. "Get out of my way! I need to find her!"

"We will!" Porthos broke out. "Brother, we will! But you're still hurt!"

Aramis's jaw ached from how hard he clenched his teeth. "I. Don't. _Care,"_ he growled.

"If you leave now, you could _die_ ," Athos told him sternly. "The Queen released Treveille from prison. Sylvie and Elodie left with a group of men to trail the Spaniards. She isn't alone, and neither are you," he said.

"If that's true, then you'll help me get out of this bed," Aramis informed them. "She's my sister. I'm going."

Porthos made an exasperated sound in the back of his throat, grabbing his hands to help level him upright. The room spun, and Aramis slumped against his friend, breathing hard. "And what exactly is your plan?" D'Artagnan asked.

"What time is it?" Aramis gasped.

Athos cringed guiltily. "Nearly midnight. You've been dead to the world for a full day…" Aramis pushed himself away from Porthos, scooping his sword and pistol from the bedside table. He would go bare chested if he needed too.

"And you _haven't_ gone to her yet…!?"

"I thought I recognized your voice," A new voice said from the doorway. Aramis looked up, and felt his heart skip a beat when Elodie and Constance filed in behind Sylvie. "You shouldn't be up, Aramis," Constance scolded.

Elodie was at his side in an instant, peering at his wound. He gripped her upper arm. "Adelina? Do you know…?"

Elodie, to his ever-lasting gratitude, hardly blinked. "I told Thibault not to let her out of his sight for a second. He and some others are following the Spanish envoy," she grabbed a shirt from the bedside table and began to pull it over his head. Aramis hardly paid any mind. His thoughts spun in dizzying circles, making pain throb behind his temples maddeningly.

Thibault wouldn't let him down, but he had to stop that envoy before it reached Spain. "We leave now," he hissed as the fabric of his shirt caught on the stitches in his side. Elodie murmured an apology. Porthos jumped as if it had been him hurt.

Athos stood. "You can barely walk."

He glared. "I'll manage."

"Aramis," Porthos said quietly. "We just got you back," his voice wavered and something inside Aramis wavered too. He sighed, swaying on his feet. Athos and D'Artagnan reached out, steadying him by the shoulders. Porthos gripped the back of his shirt. Aramis bowed his head as nausea built in him, hot tears building behind his eyes.

"If she dies, then you _will_ lose me. Please, I- I cannot bear her loss," he confessed with a shuddering breath.

"We're _going_ to retrieve her, Aramis," Athos told him. "She's a Musketeer. We'd no more abandon her than we would any of our own, but we must strategize. Otherwise, we could throw France back into war or worse," he pointed out. Aramis fisted handfuls of hair. He agreed with what Athos was saying, but every muscle within him trembled to move, to go, to get her _home_ as he had promised.

Then kill her for sacrificing herself for him.

"Athos is right," Elodie volunteered.

"Which is why we've already strategized," Constance added.

D'Artagnan barked a laugh. "Of course you have," he chortled, peering at his wife with boundless affection. Athos and Porthos looked more hesitant, but Aramis's heart was thundering in his chest.

Sylvie grinned. "If you gentlemen are finished? Adelina getting captured wasn't an accident," she informed them. Aramis blinked confusedly. "Brujon told Constance about Aramis being hauled away by Red Guards. We knew you three," she pointed to Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan. "Would follow him and try everything to get him free, but we decided to have back-up plan just in case Aramis decided to be self-sacrificing. It was Adelina's idea."

Aramis felt a spike of exasperation mixed with gratitude. He had never deserved Adelina's adoration, but she never listened to him when he tried to warn her. He never should have brought her – a child, basically – into his lonely, convoluted life. "Of course it was," Aramis groaned.

"I've assembled our spies," Elodie assured him. "The ones who aren't with Thibault are ready to move out," she told them.

"Who will be watching over the Louvre?" Athos asked. Porthos scrunched his face distastefully.

"Who cares?" He grumbled.

Aramis had to agree where the King was concerned, but his son was also in danger. He stared intently at Elodie, who shrugged as carelessly as Porthos had spoken. "Do I have to think of everything?"

"We'll stay," Constance volunteered. She met D'Artagnan's suspicious gaze, rolling her eyes. "I can get close to the Queen. I'll take Sylvie and Elodie with me and make sure she and the Dauphin are safe. The Red Guard can handle the King. You go save Adelina," It was the best news he had heard all day. Aramis squeezed Porthos's shoulder until his friend caught him by the elbow.

"A'right," Porthos agreed, even as his eyes swam with fear. "We're goin. Try to keep France from falling into oblivion while you're at it, eh, ladies?" He asked.

"What's this bout tryin?" Elodie snorted. "We'll handle it good and proper, Porthos," she stretched to grant him a delicate kiss on the cheek, then bestowed them all with a similar favor. Aramis didn't have the words to express his gratitude, so he merely nodded. Constance slapped D'Artagnan's arm, Sylvie pressed a hand to Athos's chest, they exchanged a meaningful look and then the ladies vanished.

Aramis looked up, softened a bit in his anger.

"None of you have to come," he started to assure them. "I know this is all my doing. You needn't endanger yourselves…"

Porthos rolled his eyes loudly with much guffawing. "You on this again? You're startin to make me angry now," his eyes flashed dangerously, as if he were preparing to fight Aramis instead.

That didn't mean he couldn't still try to talk them out of their foolhardy. "I can…" Athos pressed a hand to his shoulder. The rest of the words faded on his tongue, bitten off by a sudden lump in his throat.

He turned eyes brimming with tears to their eldest. "You can't," Athos disagreed, calmly. Aramis nodded. They all knew as such. He felt foolish trying to deny it. _Old habits die hard, I suppose,_ he thought.

"And you won't," D'Artagnan added, with a fond smile.

Porthos gestured to the open door as if he was the one being held up. "Yeah," he replied to Aramis's earlier statement. "Me too."


End file.
